


Out of Place

by Drbwho



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:06:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 30,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drbwho/pseuds/Drbwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After her family is killed in a fire, Sansa Stark comes to live with her uncle. Also, revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Start

**Author's Note:**

> you may be acquainted with the night  
> but I have seen the darkness in the day  
> and you must know it is a terrifying sight  
> because you and i are living the same way

The first night he came to her she almost didn’t notice him. The moon was high and the house was quiet. The only sound in the room was the low roar of the furnace…and soft breathing. He hovered in the shadows near her door, standing and watching. Her eyes flitted open with a feeling of the presence of another, slowly accommodating to the darkness.  
“Mr. Baelish?” Her voice was raspy with sleep.  
“Sansa,” his tone low and thoughtful.  
“Is something wrong?” She sat up in bed, keeping the thick blankets pulled up to her chest to cover her thin nightgown.  
“No, sweetling, just checking up. I know it must be hard, settling in here. Do you need anything?” He was already making his way back to the door, but his green eyes remained fixed to hers.  
“No…no thank you.” She heard herself respond, more alert this time.  
Apparently satisfied, with a nod and a half smile he exited the room. 

Her room now, she supposed, although only for a few days so far. Her relocation was a recent one; it had been two weeks since the fire that killed most of her family. Arson, they’d said, but still had no leads on who or why.  
Sansa had ideas, however.  
The fire that started in her parent’s room spread quickly to her brother Robb’s. They died almost instantly, but not instantly enough to stop their screams. After that it swept through the rest of the house engulfing room by room. By this time the rest of them were awake and making their escape. Sansa and her sister Arya were the first out, uninjured. Her brothers Bran and Rickon followed closely behind with their half-brother Jon. On the way out a beam collapsed and Bran was nearly killed. Jon pulled the beam off, carrying him out to safety.  
During the next week the remaining Starks were subjected to incessant questioning about the fire (they all knew better than to talk, but the questions continued, nonetheless). Bran was hospitalized. They said the recovery would be long and hard, and it’s a miracle he lived at all but he may never walk again. Jon had his hands full with Rickon, Being 18 it fell into his hands to take care of him.  
Arya ran away. Two days after the fire, after the first rounds of questioning, she slipped from the hotel room she and Sansa shared, leaving nothing but a note claiming she’d be somewhere safe. Sansa had her doubts. She also had her doubts the police would find her if she didn’t want to be found. Arya was wild and clever, much more clever than a 14 year old should be.  
This left Sansa quite alone.  
She had no close family. Her Uncle Benjen was currently abroad with the same company that (probably) got her parents killed. Her Aunt was gone as well, died of a heart attack two years before. She was 16, still in school and living in a hotel.  
That was when he showed up.

Accompanied by her social worker, dressed finely in a gray suit and immaculate, chestnut hair with graying patches on the sides. He appeared somber but also, Sansa noticed uncomfortably, a slight gleam in his eyes unbefitting the situation.  
“Sansa,” Ros, her social worker, began. “I trust you remember Mr. Baelish?”  
“Yes of course I do.” Mr. Baelish, or Uncle Petyr as she used to know him, was her Aunt Lysa’s widower. He was never around much, never attended family events, but always seemed to show up when he was needed.  
And her father trusted him.  
It had been a couple of years since Aunt Lysa passed and Sansa had seen him maybe a handful of times since; at her father’s annual business party or visiting the house once to consult Ned on very important matters.  
Why was he here now?  
Ros cleared her throat, pulling Sansa from her thoughts. “Sansa, what would you say about coming to live with your Uncle for a little while?”


	2. The House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and all these fears swiftly come to pass  
> presently she feels we're past  
> cups of tea and optimistic prayers

He had arranged for a driver to pick her up from the hotel, _I’ll be much too busy tomorrow to see you there myself_ , he had said, _but make yourself comfortable until I turn up_. The black car arrived on time, the driver professional in both appearance and actions; only the simplest, one-word responses to any questions Sansa dared ask him. The vehicle sped along the busy Boston streets with ease while a feeling of both dread and anticipation flowed through its passenger.

 _What does he do?_ She asked herself as the car pulled up to the expansive, modern house. While her family had been well off, she never stopped to consider the role her dear uncle played in the company. She had sometimes overheard her father or one of his business partners make comments ( _Baelish will sort it out)_ about him, and she had an idea that he was some sort of an accountant.

She thanked the driver and made her way into the house, and realized immediately as she stepped through the threshold this place couldn’t really be called a home. Minimalist at best, the house was hardly furnished; the living room and kitchen looked as though they had never been used, and as she made her way down the halls and up stairways she felt more and more as though she’d moved from one hotel to another. He told her that her room would be upstairs and that she would recognize it when she saw it. That much was true.

This room was completely different.

Where the rest of the house was scarce in comfort this space was spilling with _stuff._   Anything she could think to want was here; a vast bed with a soft white comforter, dressers filled with clothing of (she assumed) approximated sizes, a bathroom containing soaps, shampoos and a large claw bathtub.

 _This is too much_ , she thought to herself. More than anything, though, she felt more miserable. All she had lost in the fire, her family, her own things, _this pales in comparison._ Sinking down to the floor Sansa pulled her knees toward her chest and buried her face in her elbow. She had rarely been alone in the last week, rarely had time to _reflect_ on everything that had happened. She stayed there, wishing she could push the memories from her mind; wishing she could run away, until the sun started to sink and the room began to darken.

 

_At least he’s trying._

Boredom quickly brought her to search the rest of the house. She found most of the same: bland rooms with nothing personal. Arriving at the last room on the top floor at the end of the hall, she found the first locked door. This must be his room, she mused.

She decided after a while of exploring that she should eat something. Her appetite and sleeping patterns had been nonexistent since the fire, but she thought she’d at least play the part. Although she didn’t pride herself in her culinary skills, she managed to pull off decent lasagna. Running first down to the grocery store, she next acclimated herself to the kitchen. Eating a few bites of the finished product, throwing a bit extra in the trash so it appeared as though more was consumed and leaving the rest for him, she migrated to the living room to watch television.

She had fallen asleep by the time he returned. Waking upon hearing the door open and close, she feigned sleep, not wanting to be asked the same questions over and over ( _are you okay_ and _you must be hurting_ and _can I do anything_ ). She heard a soft chuckle from him as he entered the kitchen, probably eyeing the lasagna she prepared. Hearing him move into the living room she continued to fake sleeping as he stepped close. She felt him then; begin to pick her up, arms securing the insides of her knees and her shoulders, effortlessly easing her into the air. Reflexively, she draped her arms around his neck, for stabilization more than anything else, although there was _comfort_ there as well.

Settling her into her new room and pulling the blankets over her, he left her alone. 


	3. The First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and he likes the taste of blood, and he loves the way you love  
> and that's just what he wants from you

It didn’t take long for Sansa to create a routine in her new living situation. School didn’t begin again for months and she found that her uncle was rarely around. He left often before sunrise and came home anywhere from late evening to early morning. _No wonder he doesn’t have anything personal here._ The driver (Lother, he finally gave his name after a significant amount of prodding) was available when she had need, and she introduced herself to the cleaning staff as they came and went. She spent time walking around the city, exploring local parks and shops and avoiding phone calls of the many _sympathizers_. Most of the time, she continued to spend secluded in her own thoughts.

Not that Mr. Baelish wasn’t attentive: in the first few days he would call in the early afternoon to make sure she was settling in well enough. In the evenings he would shuffle in, weary and disheveled in a way she’d never seen him look, mumbling about how difficult the job had become without Ned. He’d give her a smile (smirk) and head to his room only to wake up a handful of hours later and do it again.

 

That first night when he came to her she thought she might have dreamt it. In the morning she lay in the ( _her)_ bed and convinced herself she made it all up.

When she mustered the courage to leave her room she found him standing in the kitchen, coffee in one hand and iPhone in the other, appearance neat and trimmed as usual. When he heard her approach he turned and nodded in acknowledgment.

“Coffee's in the pot if you'd like. Did you get enough rest?

“Yes…Mr. Baelish.” She still wasn’t sure what to call him.

“Sansa please, call me Petyr.” He went back to his phone, tapping away.

“Petyr.” The name sounded odd to her. The only other person she’d heard call him that was Lysa. Anyone else referred to him as either Baelish or worse, “Littlefinger,” a nickname Sansa had heard her mother call him once.

At his name he looked up again. “Hey, how about takeout tonight? I’ll stop and pick something up on the way home. What do you like?”

 

He came home early, Chinese takeout in hand, looking less tired than the night before. Presenting her with a carton and taking one for himself, he settled next to her on the sizeable sofa. Sansa picked at the rice with her chopsticks, not really committing to eating the meal, watching the television for lack of anything better to do. A side glance to Petyr showed him on his phone again, answering it a few seconds later after the familiar vibrating-ring. Excusing himself with a nod, he stepped into the next room and continued the conversation, voice too hushed for Sansa to hear.

The rest of the night went much of the same. By the time Mr. Baelish ( _Petyr_ ) finished his food it had been long cold. Setting his phone down, finally, on the sofa, he turned to Sansa.

“I have a dinner engagement tomorrow, boring business really, but Nestor has a daughter your age and I was wondering if you’d want to join us?”

She didn’t want to go, really, but Petyr had been so kind to her and she didn’t feel right refusing. “Of course I’ll come.”

“Good girl.” He gave a nod and headed to bed without another word.

 

That night he came again. It was late, but Sansa was already awake. Sleep did not come easy to her anymore and she spent her nights tossing and turning in a half-awake state. She heard the door this time; a slight groan as he slowly shifted it open. Her eyes, untouched by sleep this time, studied her intruder with sapphire gaze.  

His eyes were locked on hers as he crept closer to the bed, eventually sitting on the edge. He was clad in black pajama pants and a loose-fitting grey T-shirt.

Sansa sat up, confusion present in her stare.

“Are you sleeping well?” His tone suggested concern; his face did not.

Sansa sat up until their faces were even height, “are you, Petyr? It appears you lost your way tonight.”

A small chuckle fell from his lips, barely more than a breath. “I lost my way a long time ago, my dear.” He lifted his hand to brush back a strand of her long auburn strands and tucked them behind an ear. “Sleep.” He moved forward then, hand behind her ear pulling her head forward as he softly pressed his lips to her temple. A brief contact, less than a second, and he was gone. 


	4. The Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everybody knows where you go for bad behavior  
> now i've got my arms around you  
> heaven is divine

 

She hadn’t slept that night. _What was he thinking?_ Her hand traveled to her temple where he had kissed her. Her stomach was in knots; confusion, unease and ( _anticipation_ ) something else. The house was silent: he had left long before she woke in the morning, much to Sansa’s relief, although a small part of her wished for some company. Maybe making a new friend, one who didn’t wear a constant look of _pity_ for the Stark girl, wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

 

 

Petyr picked her up from the house at exactly 6:00pm: a honk from the car her only warning. Rain drizzled while air remained warm and humid, forcing freshly curled red locks to make a dash for the car at the beginning of the driveway. Door opening to ease her entry, Sansa landed gracefully in the seat next to her warden.

Petyr was dressed with care and precision as usual, choosing a more casual look in gray shirt and black slacks. Hair in slight disarray, he regarded her with appraising eyes as he scanned her choice of garb until returning finally to her face.

“Lovely, Sansa.” He approved.

“I didn’t realize it would be a casual dinner.” Sansa had possibly chosen poorly. Not feeling like donning something so light and carefree as a summer gown, she opted instead for a more elegant dress: black and knee length with a low back and auburn hair cascading down to cover most of her exposed spine. Deep red heels to add some semblance of color besides her hair, she knew her choice was far too rich and sad to pair with Petyr’s attire. She looked as though was either going to a party or a funeral.

He returned her stare of dismay with one of amusement, “you look fine, Sansa. Black is good, black is solemn. No one is expecting you to be over the moon right now.”

 

_You’re right. My family is dead and all I have left now is you, really._

 

Sansa took several deep breaths before exiting the car on the Royce’s Estate. She knew that Nestor Royce had been a longtime partner at Landing, the business her father and Robert Baratheon established decades ago. She had recalled meeting him once, possibly, many years ago but she couldn’t remember what his job was.

_Every day that goes by I wish I would have paid more attention to the people in my father’s life._

The way Petyr approached the house gave Sansa the impression he had been there many times before, confirmed when Mr. Royce opened the door with a familiar handshake and inside joke. Turning to Sansa the man then clasped her shoulder as his tone shifted from jovial to somber.

“Sansa, I’m so sorry to hear about your parents. Ned, well, I’ve known for as long as I can remember, and Cat…what a beautiful woman…”

Sansa dolled out her well-rehearsed gratitude as she was lead into the foyer and hustled out into the parlor to meet Royce’s daughter while the men moved toward the bar.

Myranda was not at all what she expected. Sansa estimated her at 19 or 20, dark hair and a mischievous look about her. Where the little bird was tall and awkward, still growing into her figure, Myranda had womanly curves. _I’d bet she has men groveling at her feet_. Judging by her low cut top and tight fitting jeans Sansa figured the woman knew the kind of hold on men she could possess. She was reclining on one of the plush chairs in the room, painting her nails a golden hue.

“You must be Sansa.” She began, her tone implying boredom, not bothering to look up at her. “Father says we’re to be the best of friends. What do you say to that?”

“If you’d like, Myranda.” Sansa was nothing if not polite.

Myranda placed the nail polish down and patted the chair next to her, “come, sit down, and please call me Randa. If we’re to be friends you must use my nickname. Oh, and one other thing: you must share with me all of your secrets.”

Sansa sunk down into the chair, “but what if I don’t have any secrets?”

Myranda laughed, “oh, everyone has secrets, Sans. Do you mind if I call you Sans?” If Sansa had minded, she wouldn’t have had a chance to tell her so. “My father says that a man’s secrets are more dangerous than swords. I wonder if that’s why he gets on so well with Littlefinger…”

Sansa’s attention was gained at that, “what do you mean?”

Myranda pursed her lips. “Everyone knows that Mr. Baelish is a very crafty man. You must know what kind of work he does, don’t you?”

“I know he worked closely with my father. He does seem to be clever, and he’s always working or on his phone…” Sansa still wasn’t following.

Myranda pulled herself toward the edge of the chair, closing in on Sansa, “well, don’t you know anything about the business, Sansa? I’m only a secretary but I’ve heard plenty, trust me. Just yesterday in fact I heard Mrs. Lannister mention she’s thinking of relocating headquarters, which honestly makes sense seeing as a lot of people suspect it was her own son that killed…oh.” Myranda stopped and clasped her hands to her mouth.

_Killed who?_

Sansa’s head was swimming. Half formed thoughts plummeting toward her lips, but for a long moment she remained silent. Finally, she advanced toward her, tearing her hands from her face. “Suspect he killed who?” She demanded.

“Oh, Sansa I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it, I swear. It was just gossip, that’s all. Let’s talk about something else.”

Myranda made no more mention of her father’s work despite endless questioning by the girl. Realizing that Sansa wasn’t likely to give up, she pulled out a bottle of wine and a couple of antique glasses. “Why don’t we take dinner in here, just us girls? What father and Baelish don’t know won’t hurt them. Leave the boring talk to the old men. You can tell me what it’s like living with Littlefinger in that empty old house of his.”  

 

 

The black car was waiting as soon as they opened the door to leave. Wine had flowed freely between the girls, and a sort of friendship (although Sansa remained guarded) had blossomed. Sansa bid Myranda farewell, promising to call in the morning, and Petyr reached out to Nestor for a firm handshake. Sliding into the car first her uncle quickly followed.

“Good time with Myranda then?” He asked amiably, looking forward to nod at Lothor through the rearview mirror. “I know she’s a bit of a talker, that one.”

Sansa nodded, playing idly with her fingers in her lap. She’d had too much to drink, her face was warm with wine and her thoughts were muddled.

He looked at her then, and she saw his eyes were cloudy as well. “I hope you’ll be friends, Sansa. Myranda is quite the gossip and sometimes, well, the information she spills may be beneficial…” His voice dropped to barely a whisper, moving closer so she could hear. His lips were inches from her earlobe.

Sansa pulled back slightly so she could meet his gaze. “So…you want me to spy on them for you?”

“No, no. Just listen to what she says and keep an ear out. Especially if you hear anything about the Baratheon family.”

Sansa stilled. Myranda had already mistaken Sansa for either a friend or a fool. She kept the information to herself, at least for the moment. Sansa may not have played her cards close to her heart in the past, but she was learning.

And she was still far too close to her uncle, very nearly sharing breaths. Eyes locked, she decided it was time to begin the game. “I’ll tell you if she says anything.” She lied.

“Good. _Good_.” He moved closer still, hand reaching up to cup the side of her chin, a feather-light touch. Sansa’s breath hitched, although she made no motion to pull away. The wine, the kiss to the temple, the way his eyes appeared more lead than green now, focused intently on her, were all too much for her to dispute. As foreign lips touched hers, a dry and almost chaste thing, she pushed slightly back into him. A moment, that was all, and she was Sansa again, and she was in control again. She pulled away, a faint smell of wine and something else ( _mint?_ ) to her olfactory nerves. 


	5. The Weekend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll shut up and carry on  
> the scream becomes a yawn

Heading back to her room that night, Sansa reflected on the events of the last few weeks. Certainly it was kindly of a relative to take in an orphaned teen, but Petyr was barely family, not linked by _blood_ , and not someone that people referred to as _kind_. A gentle tingling remaining on her lips seemed to only complicate her thoughts.

Not only that, but what kind of information is Mr. Baelish trying to extract from the Royces? Sansa knew so little about the people who currently surrounded her that she was unable to see friend from foe. This was especially true for her current custodian. She resolved to investigate on her own.  If Myranda and Petyr were able to play this game, so could she. She could be bold as well.

 

It was a Saturday, although Sansa wouldn’t have been able to tell without the jarring and unexpected company in the house. Still in bed, she could hear him moving about, clanging in the kitchen with his favorite news channel humming in the background. Pressing a pillow harshly to her head she attempted to drift back to sleep, wanting to catch another hour or so of uncomplicated dreams.

Her brain appeared to be against returning to slumber, however. Changing into jeans and a blue cotton shirt she wandered down to the kitchen, unsure of what kind of welcome to expect.

“Toast?” Petyr asked as she shuffled into the room. He was standing near the counter, plate in hand. Nothing about his tone suggested that anything usual had transpired between the pair. Still dressed in boxers and a shirt he seemed completely out of character.

“No thanks.” Sansa politely declined, choosing an apple from the fruit bowl instead and taking a delicate bite.

“I have to run out for a few hours but I’ll be back early. Do you need anything while I’m away?”

_I think its time for answers._

“I’d like to know why you took me in.” Sansa took another bite of the apple, trying to appear as nonchalant as she could.

Petyr’s lips turned up in a thin, mocking smile. “What’s wrong with an uncle wanting to take in his family when they’re in need?”

“Are we family, Petyr?” She asked, almost to herself. _What about that kiss, Petyr?_ “Why didn’t you take in the rest of my family, then? Jon, Bran, Rickon? You remember them, right? At least have the decency to tell me the truth.” Sansa had no use for diplomatic half-answers. Not anymore.

Petyr sighed dramatically, placing the plate on the counter. “ Sansa, I…I don’t know, really. I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“I don’t believe you. There has to be more to the story, Petyr.” The little she’d learned about Littlefinger before coming to live with him was that he was clever and good with finding things that people wanted. She didn’t think the words charitable or family-oriented were in his vocabulary.

His smile faded. “I’m not asking you to trust me. You’re a smart girl; try and figure out why I’d want to be your guardian. Do you really think you’re safe in Boston right now? The oldest living child of Ned and Cat Stark? Think about it. Do you have any idea the kind of work your father and Robert Baratheon did? I’d be willing to bet you have _no idea at all_. The innocent little Stark girl.” His words were soft but laced with venom and _something else_. “I really shouldn’t have…done this.”

“Done what?” Sansa asked heatedly, hurt at his condescending words.

“I think this was a mistake, you coming here.” His tone plaintive, dark green eyes on blue.

“And why is that?” Sansa spat, splaying both hands on the counter, “is thinking of someone else too much for you? Do you miss not caring about anything but yourself?”

“No, no that. You may come to learn that I care about a great deal.”

“Then why? Just tell me and quit playing games.”

“Because Sansa,” he breathed, taking slow, lazy steps toward her, “I don’t really trust myself with you.”

Sansa combated his approach with retreat, until her form gently collided with the cold kitchen wall. And he did not stop when she did, not until he was much too close and his chest just touching her shirt. One hand moved stealthily toward her side, grazing where her jeans met her top, while his other cupped her neck, a more possessive gesture. Sansa could feel the heat rising to her cheeks, and warmth of another sort forming below abdomen. Anger mixed with desire, Sansa couldn’t be sure which was winning out; she was afraid of the answer. His smirking gaze fell to her lips, his own parting slowly, waiting and waiting for something.

Sansa may not have been experienced when it came to lust, but she knew what he was asking for. She knew also that this was a different kind of agreement than the kisses she had shared her suitors of the past. This was binding.

Slowly, fingers crept up to reach his no longer smirking face. Tips of her digits tentatively migrated down a masculine jawline. A sharp intake of breath on his part. A weakness found.

 _No way back now_ , she conceded as her lips found his, parting at the last moment. Soft and dry at first. Having been given a permission, Petyr grew bolder, his grip on her waist tightening as she was backed completely against the wall. His roaming tongue, at first satisfied with occasionally brushing forward to caress lips, now entered her open mouth, intertwining and gliding against hers.

His phone ringing, muffled in his jeans, caused connections to sever, leaving Sansa breathing fast, lips wet and if she was being honest with herself, _still wanting_.

 

He took the call.

Joffrey Baratheon caught on camera fleeing the scene of the Stark arson. Out on bail. Trial to follow.

 

Sansa knew what happened to wealthy people who were convicted of crimes.

It’s true, she didn’t have an inkling to what Ned Stark did, but she decided she was going to figure it out, and she was going to kill whoever took her family away.


	6. The Flaw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still so young and anxious to be free  
> but now i'm trapped inside with all these memories

On the third night he came to her, she’d been crying. To Sansa, crying was a private thing. Even at the funeral she shed no tears in front of others. Instead, she settled on waiting until everyone had gone, or until she was in her hotel room, until she was _alone_ in her sorrow. There, with no one to witness how much she hurt, the tears had flown freely as hands clenched and teeth ground together in anguish.

He had, presumably, heard her trembling sobs when he entered. He was quicker than the past times, making no motions to be quiet as he closed the door behind him and padded toward the bed. Concern was plain on his face, mixed with the sort of fatigue that presents itself only in the middle of the night: weary eyes that adjusted poorly to change in place or lighting.

 _How unusual for him to show such an emotion_ , she thought inwardly when she looked up at him. She hadn’t known him for very long ( _did she really know him at all?_ ), but she knew he was someone who was unaccompanied in the world. Even his marriage to Lysa seemed detached, only displaying the most _necessary_ affections. A kiss on the cheek, nodding half-smiles to his wife and only when others were watching. Her mother sometimes spoke of how much Lysa had loved Petyr ever since they were children together, but Sansa wondered how much of that feeling was reciprocated.

“Sansa, what can I do?” He asked, creeping even closer to her. He looked as her as though she was fragile, as if a single touch or word out of place and she would shatter. That look was worse than any scowl he could have given her. Being weak was not a trait she could afford to have.

“Nothing, Petyr, please just go.” At that, she turned away from him, curling further into herself.

Petyr stood next to the bed for several quiet moments, listening to the sobs of his _little bird_. Sansa almost thought he’d left (he was so quiet) and nearly turned to check when she felt the mattress shift under extra weight. Hands that were not hers relocated to either of her sides, holding ( _comforting_ ). Face buried in the auburn hair at her neck as she heard faint ( _shhh, shhh, Sansa_ ) noises from behind her ear.

She couldn’t help but feel reassurance as she leaned back into him, feeling the heat of his body along her back. One last night of relief then, she conceded, molding her form to fit his.

 

“What do you want?” He asked her when as the sun crept through the white curtains, making wavy patterns on the sheets that covered them. He was still with her, arms wrapped around her, legs intertwined together. Sometime in the night she had turned to face him, one arm secured under his arm and one on his chest, loosely grasping his shirt. Her eyes opening saw only the gray of his shirt until she guiding her head upward to face him; she had barely heard the question whispered through the auburn hair at this top of her scalp.  

“I want my family back.” She responded unhesitatingly.

“Sansa, you know I can’t do that _. What do you want_?” Fingers moved to caress her waist in small circles.

Sansa shifted further backward to better lock into irises still hazy with sleep. “ If I can’t have my family back, I want them to _pay_.”

Petyr smiled. It reached his eyes. Greedy arms pulled her closer, her body flush with his still both side-lying. Lips moved to her temple, cheek, jawline and finally met her own expectant mouth.

Lips and fingers and moans had worked in tandem until Sansa’s jaw was sore, until his hands moved downward, under her shirt, caressing the side of a breast. His mouth grew hungrier until she could feel a press of his arousal against her. She almost made to lift his shirt off of him then, to finally _consummate_ the partnership, to maybe even find some relief, when she stopped herself.

_What are you doing? What would your parents think?_

Her parents. She pulled away, leaving him there on her bed.

 

 _Why aren’t you at work?_ She’d asked.

_I am working, Sansa. It’s a different kind of work._

He didn’t say a word about leaving him there on the bed. In fact, Sansa had learned that Petyr was extremely skilled in his lack of acknowledgement that anything at all was happening between them. This was both a relief and a cause for confusion. He was either using her vulnerability for something ( _perhaps like Lysa_ ) or he wore a very convincing mask. He started toward the coffeemaker.

She knew it wouldn’t be easy. She knew it before he told her as much while sitting over breakfast. He was on his phone again and had barely bothered to react to her questions. 

He finally spoke up, coffee in hand as he set his phone down on the dark wooden dining room table to join Sansa. “You know it wasn’t Joffrey’s idea. This has Cersei written all over it.”

“No, I don’t know anything. I never paid attention…not to anything.” This confession embarrassed Sansa. She didn’t know why; he’d told her he knew how naïve she was just the night before.

Petyr picked up on her humiliation. “Sansa, it’s fine. You’re young. You’ll learn. You probably understand much more than you think, even now. But it’s important that you do. _Learn_ , that is. Are you willing to do that?”

“Yes. I am. Will…will you help?”

Her uncle took a swig of his coffee. Pausing for a moment to stare into the still almost full mug he began her lesson.  “Did Ned ever tell you what happened to Robert, Joffrey’s father?

“Not really, just that he’d died on a hunting trip.” Sansa remembered only because she had to attend the funeral. She hadn’t wanted to, had fought with her mother for hours about it.

_I wish she were here, if only to fight with._

 “Well, it was a hunting trip. A hunting trip with Robert, his brother, and a bunch of Lannisters, Cersei’s family. He was shot in the chest with a stray bullet. An accident, they’d said. But Renly, Robert’s brother, was convinced it was treachery. You see, Robert had just come to an agreement with some new business partners, and this agreement wasn’t very favorable to Cersei’s father. It would have meant a diffusion of power, and if the Lannisters are notorious for anything it would be their need to be in control. They never found the gun he was shot with and the only witness was his personal assistant, Lancel Lannister.”

“How did they get away with that?”

“How does anyone? There was no proof, Sansa. They’re smart, that family. They keep their hands clean for the most part. You’d do well to remember that. It’s good advice. They do have a few weaknesses, though, that we can work with. If you’re still up for it.”

“Yes.” Still no hesitation. Sansa was resolute. “What are they? Their weaknesses.”

Petyr leered. “There’s only one you need to worry about, and I think you probably already know. It’s Cersei’s idiot son, Joffrey. Him, we can destroy.”

As engaged as she was in the information he’d decided to share with her, she still had one very large question looming in the front of her mind. “But why are you helping me? What’s in it for you? You’re working for them. You're their friend.” He hadn’t really given her an answer the night before.

“I’m nobody’s friend, Sansa. I look out for myself. It’s important you know that. And as far as why I’m helping you…you still don’t have an idea?”

Sansa hadn’t really had a chance to consider it. So many events had transpired since last night that her mind was in overdrive. “No, but…is it because you want to take over Landing?”

Littlefinger chuckled. “No, no. I don’t want to be in charge. Experience has taught me that sometimes it’s better to be pulling the strings from behind the curtain. Let’s just say I have my own reasons to want to Lannisters gone.”  


	7. The Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> destroy everything you touch today  
> please destroy me this way

She sat in front of the computer screen with glazed-over eyes, clicking absently at any page that seemed pertinent. The finger and thumb on her right hand had started cramping with use hours ago, now resolving to a dull aching. The slight twinge in comparison to the feeling of loss in her _heart_ was almost welcome.

Sansa had spent the day on the internet in Petyr’s study while he was at work, researching her father’s company. She’d acquired a great deal of information from the company’s website, but was convinced from Myranda and Petyr’s suggestions that there was much more. She needed to find the unwritten story. Unfortunately, she had come to the conclusion that it was going to take more than a few internet searches.

Understanding the foundations of her father’s work was vital, and she was easily able to find the story of where it started. Landing was formed decades ago, before Sansa was born, by Robert and Ned. It had since become one of the biggest consumer banking businesses in the United States. As the company expanded and grew, so did its partners. The addition of Tywin Lannister, and subsequent merger of his company, Casterly, was one of the most controversial decisions by the business. While it was a fruitful merger, Ned and Robert began to differ in their opinions on how to proceed with the company, and Ned parted ways with Landing. A decade later, Robert begged him to return as partner when Jon Arryn, Ned’s replacement, died of a heart attack. Ned begrudgingly accepted the offer, and worked for years at Landing until his death. A year before Ned died, Robert was killed in a hunting accident and his son Joffrey, a 22-year-old recent business school graduate, gained control of the company with Ned as his mentor. Now, without Ned, Tywin, the now most senior partner, has control of nearly everything.

Sansa recalled what Petyr had said about the Lannisters wanting power, and it seemed as though they had it all now. Sansa wondered absently if Jon Arryn’s heart attack had been a Lannister orchestration as well. Jon had been Lysa’s husband before Petyr, Sansa knew, but she didn’t really remember much about him. When he had died Lysa all but jumped into Petyr’s arms, her mother had insinuated more than once.

 

“We’re going to have to dye your hair. “ He said simply as he leaned casually in the doorframe that evening.

Sana’s looked over to him, startled. “Why?”

“Your hair, as beautiful as it is, is too unique. Joff would be aware of your red hair, even if he hasn’t seen you in a long time. You’ll need to look different if this is going to work.”

“No, you can’t dye my hair.” _It’s my mother’s hair._ “And what's your plan? You haven’t said.” They hadn’t spoken since the day before: Petyr had gone out yesterday afternoon and didn’t return home overnight. She had no idea where he’d been.

“The hair is only for a little while, and I’m _telling_ you the plan now. It starts with dye and ends with a new name,” he told her, reaching into a pocket of his slacks to produce a bundle of cards and tossing them at her. Driver’s license, gym card, college ID and a few glossy new credit cards. All with the name ALAYNE STONE printed on them where SANSA STARK should be.

“What are these?”

“Your temporary identity. Joffrey knows the name Stark. You can’t use it when you meet him.” Petyr’s mouth turned up on one side, concealing a grin. He was only giving her the bare minimum information, apparently waiting for her to put it together, and he was enjoying it.

“So I’ll be meeting him? As Alayne? And then what?”

“You’ll seduce him. You’ll make him want you more than anything else. It shouldn’t be hard, a girl as lovely and virtuous as you. One drink is all he’ll need.”

“Petyr, I’m 16. I can’t get into bars.”

“You’re nearly 17, and look at your cards. Alayne Stone is 21. And anyway, that didn’t stop you from imbibing with Myranda, did it?” Petyr countered, still leaning against the door.

“Fair point,” Sansa conceded, wondering how he discovered her birthdate. She figured he must have all of her records, receiving them when he took her in _. I wonder how old he is_ , she thought, looking away from him and staring back into the computer screen. _Younger than my parents, surely._ Cat had said he was like a _little brother_ to she and Lysa. Late twenties? Early thirties? She was afraid to ask the age of the man that had stepped over the clearly marked lines of propriety.

Eyes flicked back to him, questioning. “So, what do I do after I buy him a drink?”

“You’ll need to go somewhere private. Somewhere you won’t be seen. You may have to lose his entourage, but I imagine he’s good enough at that. He won’t want to be caught with someone other than his darling Margery.”

“He has a girlfriend?”

“They’re engaged, actually, but don’t let that bother you. It certainly hasn’t stopped him. Have far have you gotten with Landing? What have you learned?”

Sansa sighed. “Not much, just their origins and what happened to each of the partners. I guess the Lannisters have everything they want now.”

Petyr shook his head slowly. “Not everything, _Alayne_.”

Sansa was exhausted. Sick of looking at the dull light of the screen, she turned the monitor off and stood up. “Can’t you just tell me what’s really going on?”

His smile faded. “They brought me in later, but I managed to gather the important parts of the early days. Baratheon had started embezzling money early enough on, keeping it a secret from Ned. His advisors were less than noble. With the Lannisters it only became worse. Ned found out and wanted nothing to do with it, giving up his share in exchange for a _generous buyout_. Jon Arryn took over, and managed to be the company’s conscience for while. That is, until he dug a little too deep. Then they got rid of him.”

Sansa nodded. She’d figured as much.

Petyr continued. “When Ned came back, he was under the impression that there were no more…shady dealings, when in fact it was even more corrupt. I suppose you already know the rest.”

Sansa knew she still wasn’t getting the entire picture, but she was pleased with how much he shared with her. “And what’s your role in this? You’ve told me about the others, what do you do?”

“I do what I have to in order to survive.” Her luck with answers seemed to have run out. 


	8. The Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wipe the makeup from your face   
> tie your hair and gently fall from grace

When it happened, it happened much sooner and much quicker and not nearly as romantic as she had expected. She didn’t know if she had really _expected_ it at all, even though she was the initiating party. Lying awake, unable to sleep and too occupied to anyway, she was _thinking._ Still not knowing the complete role she was meant to play or when the first act would begin, she felt oddly at ease with her decision. She was taking action, she was going to make them pay. All she had to do was trust the man that was her guardian.

Did she trust him? She must, to go along with his machinations without question. After the night spent comforted by his arms she could no longer deny the feeling that she wanted more and more from him. Maybe it was the hour, or she was just sick of playing a passive role in her own life, but the decision was made. It was settled then, without much ado.

 

On that night, she came to him. His door was (thankfully) unlocked and she crept right through. His room appeared mostly bare but not nearly as modest as the rest of the house. It was still so hard to tell in the darkness, to see anything personal, anything _unusual_. He was sleeping on his stomach on his firm-looking bed, half covered in silk cerulean sheeting. She snuck forward, careful not to wake him ( _not yet_ ) and lifted the blankets up, sliding between sheet and mattress. As soon as her hand crept forward and found purchase on the small of his back he snapped awake, striking out to clench her wrist. Eyes and head shot up to condemn his invader.

“What the fuck…” he started before eyes relaxed as he realized it was Sansa in his bed.

Sansa struggled with the hand still locked on her arm. "It's just me."

“Sansa, what are you doing?” His grip relaxed slightly, continuing to hold.

“Finding a distraction. You left the door unlocked,” Sansa replied with a smirk not unlike his own. With that, she moved to brush her lips against the side of his jaw, stubble from the day grazing her face.

“Yeah, unlocked in case you needed anything. Toothpaste, more blankets, maybe a glass of warm milk…not to give me a heart attack.” He sounded irritated, but his form told a different story. He responded with hand, letting go of his grip on her arm he moved to grasp either side of her waist, pulling her close, his grey shirt rubbing against her blue cotton pajamas.

Soft kisses became insistent as his lips found hers, tongue dancing across lips until permission was given to enter, winding and threading his mouth with her own. Her fingers weaved through his dark hair, much nicer when it wasn’t  so _tidy_. Wrapping a leg around him to coax him nearer, should could already feel the firm press of his arousal against her naval.

She wondered, as bodies merged together in their now shared desire, how long it would take for Petyr to realize how inexperienced she was. Or if he just didn't care. She was crossing into unknown territory as his hands traveled downward, brushing fingertips down past her hip to inner thigh, dangerously close to her sex. Her body tensed, unsure of what action to take next. 

Sensing her tension he stopped kissing her, hand moving up to her face. “Sansa…Sansa…is this what you want?” Was her mocking warden having a crisis of conscience?

 _Yes_. If this was what was going to happen ( _and could she really deny she wanted it to?_ ), this time it would be on her terms. He had stolen the upper hand in the past, but not now. 

Impatiently, she pushed herself on top of him, clumsy with the _newness_ of it, straddling him and pulling him up toward her, clawing at his shirt until it was flung across the room. Her mouth moving toward his neck now, trailing wet kisses down toward his chest. A low groan in response, Petyr was clearly won as he lifted the cotton shirt from her, bringing her down on top of him.

Sansa sighed, slowly dragging her body down, breasts rubbing against his chest, reaching under his boxers to loosely grip his hard form. The low moan that escaped him as she started to slowly stroke him told her she was doing _something_ right. Her other hand worked with feet to relieve him of his underwear as he desperately tore at her cotton pants, sliding them off in a terribly ungraceful manner.

No barriers then between them as she continued to stroke him, appreciating the low moans escaping his mouth between the burning kisses he began to plant on her shoulder. Softly lowering his head to capture a breast, his tongue flicked her hardened nipple as he sucked.

“Petyr, please…”she began, a whimper leaving her as he bit into the tender flesh on her chest. With that, he forcefully turned her over on her back, spreading her legs with his knees, and clasping the side of her face with a hand.

“Have you ever…?” He asked roughly, hooded eyes locked with hers. He already knew her answer.

She shook her head anyway in confirmation. There had been boyfriends, surely, but she’d never gone further than gropes and feverish tongues. To answer the question unasked ( _was she ready?_ ) she pulled her legs up to meet the small of his back, and took his hand in hers, dragging it to meet their shared heat.

“Oh, Sansa.” Petyr breathed, smiling into her hair, slowly rubbing his cock against her wet folds, not yet entering her.

Still impatient, Sansa moved to buck her hips upward, meeting him and guiding him downward to her waiting entrance, until he growled in response. No longer in a playful mood and with one more deep breath he pushed himself into her, groaning at her tightness, until hips connected.

Sansa cried out. Pain and pulling and burning all mixed with a scattering of pleasure hit her at once. Tears in her eyes, trying to yank her body back away from him (to no avail), she clutched his torso and slammed her eyelids shut, grasping for a modicum of relief as he pulled and pushed himself in once more. And again, and again. As he moved to kiss the tears from her eyes he paused for a moment, waiting for some of her pain to subside. Sansa found some pleasure she realized then, and found more still as she made to thrust her hips up to meet him. The pain was still there, but as he quickened his pace to chase his desire she too found herself craving their friction. Faster and faster, she was building and careening until with his hands behind her propping her up toward him, breasts pressed to his chest sliding against the slick sweat, she found herself breaking into blissful pieces as she pulsated around him. She'd never felt anything like it before. This was a completely different kind of release, greater than the kind her own fingers afforded. 

He came just after, a few quick thrusts on his part and he shattered as well with a sharp groan, spilling directly into her core. He was staring straight into her eyes, she'd realized, as he came. Lust-filled dark eyes began to soften as he came down from his high with long, heavy breaths. _Had he taken his eyes off me at all?_  

There he remained for a long moment, both of them still throbbing, until the need to relax got the best of him and he pulled himself from her. He motioned her toward him until she rested against his chest, and she angled her face upward to meet his sated eyes. It hurt still, and it had hurt during, but it had also _helped_. It helped her forget if only for a minute all the loss she felt. It helped resolve her teenage curiosities and it helped to stop that burning feeling he had ignited in her with a kiss to her temple. 


	9. The Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was just bony hands as cold as a winter pole  
> you held a warm stone out new flowing blood to hold  
> oh, what a contrast you were  
> to the brutes in the halls  
> my timid young fingers held a decent animal.

She’d crept back into her own room not long after their pairing. Whether it was guilt, confusion, regret or fear of attachment ( _or everything_ ) she wasn’t sure. She just wanted to be gone from him for a while. He didn’t look offended when she moved from him to hastily gather her clothes, covering herself with her arms as she did so, modesty returned. He gave her a tired shrug and turned on his side, away from her. _Maybe he thought this was a mistake._

A stop to the bathroom to clean ( _the dried blood and seed)_ between her legs afforded her a look in the mirror. Her auburn hair, soon to be a probably murky shade of brown, was tangled and wild. _Sex hair_. Other than that she looked no different.

 _Am I supposed to? Should I look older, wiser? Should I look like the kind of girl who fucks her uncle? Did I already, before?_ She wasn’t sure. She no longer had a mother to look to for advice. Telling anyone else would most likely get her put in some sort of foster care.

Fatigue from the rushed coupling was the only help in getting her to sleep, dozing for a few hours before waking to hear him in his morning routine. Petyr left early that morning. He had told her that he wouldn’t be able to stop going to the office, not wanting anything to appear amiss, and with someone with such an immaculate attendance record he couldn’t afford to skip a day at work. She waited until she heard his car zoom away before she migrated away from her bed. She ached. While the events of the evening were not anything close to what her dreams of _intercourse_ would be like, she had been warned about the tenderness she felt now.

Standing, she realized with some mortification that she had left her underwear in his room. With an exasperated puff of breath she silently prayed his door was unlocked.

Tiptoeing through the hall as though he was home, as though he was going to jump out at her at the turn of the doorknob, she found no resistance to the handle. Stepping in and flicking on the light-switch to her right she surveyed the room that had been much too dark to scan hours before.

Simple, she noted. Bed with now-familiar green sheets centered the room, small black side tables flanking either side. A bathroom and closet to the left, dark dressers to the right finished out the environment. Black furniture and white walls with emerald sheets, but no underwear. Thinking the incriminating undergarment might have been stored thoughtfully away from plain sight, she made to investigate the dressers. The top few drawers were fruitless; neatly folded various articles of clothing in simple colors. When she reached the bottom drawer she found no clothes, but a fireproof locked box with several file folders neatly organized in a row.

Prying the papers apart between manila she peered into the stacks. Contracts Sansa didn’t quite understand with the words LANDING in large letters at the top, bunches of old bill statements and guardianship papers for her. Nothing out of the ordinary. Was she expecting someone more sinister? She looked to the locked container.

_Anything of real importance would be in that box._

Shutting the drawer she exited the room, leaving it just as it had been.

 

Alayne would need new clothes, she decided, calling Myranda on the phone later in the afternoon. New clothes to go with her new person, a supposed seductress. Petyr hadn’t told her how long she would have to keep up the farce, and so she wanted to have a variety of costumes to work with. The girl was only too happy to assist Sansa. 

“I’m so glad you called. I thought I’d scared you off after that dinner,” Myranda gushed as Lother pulled away from the girl’s home, headed toward the shopping district.

“No, of course not. I like your honesty. I don’t get that much anymore. It’s all sympathy and sad looks.” Sansa found it easy to be frank with her, maybe it was Myranda’s open-book personality.

Myranda giggled, “well, sorry Sans, but you won't get sympathy from me. So what are we buying today?”

“Well, I have a date. I’m not really good at picking out dresses so I thought you could help.” It wasn’t a _total_ lie, and so Sansa found it easier to stomach than a complete fabrication.

Randa, as it turned out, was the best person for the job. Only the shortest dresses with the lowest cut tops would do. Sansa had come in looking for one or two dresses; she walked out with ten. All of them with hemlines far above knee, all of them perfect for Alayne. Myranda insisted they also pick up underwear, “just in case the date goes well.” Myranda also demanded to pay for the garments, much to Sansa’s relief. Her parents had money, but she had no idea where it was now, and her bank account was dwindling. Asking for money from Petyr was out of the question to her.

“No man will be able to resist you in these, Sansa. With that ivory skin and red hair…ugh, I wish I had your looks,” Myranda sighed theatrically when they returned to the car.

“That’s the plan.”

 

Having dropped Myranda off, Lother pulled up to the Baelish house. _His_ house. Sansa still couldn’t bring herself to call it home. As she made her way to the front door she was startled by a person swiftly exiting the abode. Closing the door behind her was a woman in her twenties, Sansa estimated, with a sequenced low-cut dress under a heavy brown coat. Her hair was long and chestnut colored, straight and untangled. Her makeup was heavily applied, but the tears in her eyes had caused her mascara to run trails down the powder. Even with the muddled makeup she was stunning. Not watching where she was walking she nearly ran straight into Sansa. Alarmed, she looked at the girl, and looked down to her designer shopping bags, and her face grew concerned.

“But…you’re so _young_.” Disbelief in her voice.

“What are you talking about?” Sansa couldn’t keep the baffled tone away in response.

The woman stuttered on. “But..but there has to be something else you can do, isn’t there? Other ways to make money? This is dangerous work, what we do…you don’t _understand_ …”

The door opened again, Littlefinger slipping through the crack, “Jeyne, what are you doing? I thought you had an _appointment_.” He sounded stern, but not unkind.

“I was just…talking to…”

“My _daughter,_ Jeyne. You were talking to my daughter, Alayne.”

 _The charade has begun, then_ , Sansa thought to herself. She put on a smile. “You’re home early, _father_.”

“Oh!” the woman, Jeyne, sounded with a relief. “Oh, I’m so sorry, dear. Just ignore me. A mistake, that’s all. I thought…well, I though you were here for something else.” And she was gone, walking briskly away from them. 


	10. The Dye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and i don't know how you get over, get over  
> someone as dangerous, tainted and flawed as you

“Who _was_ that?” Sansa asked as they both made it indoors.

“A client, nothing to be concerned about. I have side enterprises, you know.”

“Side enterprises?” She wasn’t sure what he meant.

 What do you think I did before I took the job at Landing?” Petyr responded dismissively.

“But she was warning me, she said it was dangerous…”

“She was _confused_. I told you: don’t concern yourself. You’re in no danger here.” There was nothing but finality in his tone.

The subject may be closed for now, but Sansa had a mind to breach it later. She stood there silently for a moment, wondering how a person could seem so divided. Petyr could seem so caring one moment and so condescending the next.

He was first to break the silence. “We’ll have to die your hair tonight then, seeing as now _someone_ knows there’s an Alayne.”

“You said I was your daughter. Why?” Sansa knew she couldn’t be a Stark, but why his daughter?

“It was the easiest lie. You’re in my care, after all, living here.”

 

 

His bathroom was enormous with pristine white walls and snowy towels. The hair dye, set out on a table next to the sink, was the only thing out of place.

“Have you ever dyed your hair before?” He asked, grabbing the box and gingerly opening it up, spilling the contents on the wooden surface.

“No, my mother would have killed me if I’d put any color in my hair.”

“It is a shame, really. I’ll miss that color,” Petyr added with a hint of wistfulness.

Sansa grabbed the instructions, reading carefully through the simple steps. It seemed so final now: Petyr was rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt and putting on clear flimsy gloves, dye in hand, looking toward her expectantly. Tears threatened to break though her hard glare.

He seemed to sense her rigidity. As if he hadn’t already placed the bottle in his hand he added, “I’ll apply the dye then, I’ve done it before.”

She gave no argument. Her hands were shaking enough as it was without having to do the act. She didn’t want him to see that.

“Is that shirt important to you? This will be messy.”

Sansa looked down to her V-neck green shirt. No, it wasn’t important to her, but she didn’t want it covered in _brown_ , either. With some hesitation she lifted the shirt over her head, leaving only her sky-blue bra. She blushed, then, surprising considering what happened the night before. He seemed to not notice as he stepped behind her, spilled the dye on his gloves and making to touch her head.

She flinched when the first of the cold dye spilled onto her scalp, almost reaching her hands up to stop it. Instead, she clasped her hands together, fidgeting with her fingers for something to do. After a moment Petyr began massaging the dye into her, carefully, reverentially. It was such a different manner than the terse, impatient man she spoke with earlier. The motion soothed Sansa, beginning to enjoy the sensation, closing her eyes and trying to forget what she was losing, however temporary it may be.

“Turn around, I need to get the front now,” he said softly, guiding her head as she spun her body around.

A few more gentle presses to her scalp and he was done. Opening her eyes finally, she saw his green eyes stuck on hers. There was the slightest hit of worry in them, the slightest hint of _want_ as well. “Are you okay?”

 _No. I don’t think I ever will be again. Your eyes, your voice, you’ll be the death of me._ “Yes, I’m okay.”

Satisfied with her answer he smiled and shifted away from her. His eyes grew truly dark, then. With a snap he pulled a glove off, letting it fall to the floor with a _plop_ , and the other. Dye began to bleed from the thin plastic covering into white tile.

“But, your floor…” Sansa started.

“Can be cleaned. Come here,” he motioned, beckoning her closer.

It only took a single stride to join him. Without thinking she wrapped her arms around his torso and rested her head on his clothed shoulder, seeking warmth. It only took a second to realize her error, but the damage was done. Coffee colored stains marred his white buttoned shirt.

Aghast, she started to stammer an apology. “Petyr I’m so sorry…”

He was laughing, “It’s not a problem. I have other shirts. And anyway, now we’ll be even.” He started unbuttoning his shirt, finally shrugging it off as he looked sideways toward her.

She must have missed it in the dark, but how? She realized she hadn’t properly seen him the night previous. He had a lean torso, not terribly firm but certainly not flabby. Directly in the middle rested a long, pink scar stretching from just above his navel to mid-sternum. It was jagged, terrible and _curious_. Sansa couldn’t help but stare.

“You haven’t heard the story then.” He looked down at his chest, tracing the scar with his eyes.

“No, I guess not. What happened?”

“Your uncle happened. The Starks haven’t always been as kind to me as your mother’s family has been.” Petyr let the resentment drip into the statement. 

Sansa reached out to touch the marred skin, but as she closed in he grabbed her wrist, redirecting it instead to his waist.

“Don’t.” Was all he said, quietly, as he brought his hand up to her neck, careful to avoid the dye still setting in her hair, and pulling her close.

Hands holding his waist, she leaned into his touch, mouth waiting as he planted soft, leisurely kisses. Taking his time, they moved like this for long moments until he traveled down, lips caressing jaw, neck, and collarbone, drawing soft sighs from her as he unclasped her bra and began to nip at her hardening nipple.

Grasping his shoulders she moved him back up to her, tongues meeting in mutual fervor. Hands no longer caring about staining and marking moved to intertwine in freshly colored hair as his body pressed into hers. Her fingers fell to meet his jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping, earning a hum of approval on his part as jeans and boxers slid down to the cool floor.

 

Fingers trailed downward, Petyr smiled as he intentionally streaked dye down her neck, shoulder, skimming _oh so closely_ to her breast, and finally to her hips with a firm hold.

He turned her around, pushing her against the wall next to the sink, her head leaving more darkened stains against the white walls. Falling to his knees he tracked kisses downward to her hips. Opening his mouth wider he used his teeth then to nip at her hipbone as he began to unzip her jeans. Sliding them down easily until they gathered at her ankles she kicked them off, hoping he would join her above again, mouth hungry and waiting for _more_. Instead, he remained kneeling, fingers lacing around her underwear, pulling the fabric downward slowly, leaving lazy, wet kisses in it’s wake until he was just above her throbbing nub.

Grasping a thigh he roughly lifted her leg forward, letting it relax on his shoulder as he moved deeper still.

Sansa had always been a quiet girl, but she found no place for silence when his mouth moved to caress the hammering place between her legs. Hand slamming into the sink to her side in support, she gasped and bucked in response. She could feel him, smiling, _smirking_ , as he gently ( _too gently_ ) sucked caressing the flesh with his tongue.

Hand not supporting her moved to grab his hair, threading his occiput in an attempt to bring him closer, further into her. Futile, she realized. As quickly as fingers met his head he pulled backward, away from her, looking up with a wicked grin.

Sansa look a second to gather herself, panting, covered in dye from his roaming hands, wet and _needing_.

“I think you’ve had quite enough of that. You look absolutely shameless.” He mocked, rising to meet her in a harsh, almost painful kiss.

“Yes, _uncle_ ,” ( _or is it father now?_ ) she replied, lips never quite leaving his as she spoke. “I am _filthy_. I think I need a shower.”


	11. The Test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> make me nobody's robot  
> make me nobody's slaughtered lamb  
> deliver me from evil and open me as best you can

The shower had proven to be a quick one, wandering mouths and rough grasps, both impatiently cleaning the dye from their bodies. Not even bothering to move to the bedroom adjacent, Petyr threw a few soft towels on the floor and pressed her downward, positioning himself on top of her as she moved to accomodate. 

Possibly sensing her distress over the dye, or the fact that she was still moderately _innocent,_ he was gentle. Easing into her, waiting for even breaths before moving inward, his pace dictated by the small, pulsing hands on his torso. For Sansa, this time was significantly _better_. The discomfort she felt at his first entrance and the soreness from their prior coupling was fleeting, replaced with a slow burning that turned easily into a flame. Pressing hips upward in a frenzy to meet him with each buck, she sought her approaching completion. Eyes clenched shut as she found that white-hot state, dragging him with her as he groaned and gave one final thrust.

 

“You’ll have to meet him soon,” Petyr said softly into no-longer auburn hair afterward. They were still on the towels, arms and legs mingled haphazardly, sated.

“When?” She asked, looking upward to the ceiling instead of to him _. So soon?_

“Tomorrow. I’ll be at work. I want you to have Lothor drive you there.” He held her close still, arms at her ivory waist on either side, speaking quietly.

“To your job? But what reason do I give?”

“Make something up; I’ll leave it to you. Say I forgot something important. Say you’re bringing you dearest father lunch. Surprise me.” He spoke teasingly, mouth moving from hair to place firm kisses onto her throat.

“Won’t they wonder why I’ve never been there before? Or wonder where Sansa is?” Brows merged, her confusion mixed with the beginnings of warmth from his attentions. _This plan seems too dangerous._

“No one knows where Sansa is with the exception of Royce and his daughter. While I’m not one to trust anyone in particular, I have confidence they will keep our secret.” _Our secret._

“What about the social worker? Lother?” Sansa moved, away from his kisses, not wanting to become too lost in a feeling to have her questions answered.

Petyr pulled back as well, smiling, “Ros? She’s an old friend. She manages some of my…less savory affairs. Even she isn’t fully in the know: she thinks I had you shipped to boarding school. I don’t think she’ll be checking up anytime soon. And Lothor well, he would have great deal to lose if he became verbose all of a sudden, especially about my personal life.”

“It still seems _risky_ …and so soon” She looked to him then, surprised by how certain he was in this plot.

Petyr sat up quickly, appearing slightly irritated at her questions. “It’s not: tomorrow is ideal. Most of the partners, Tywin especially, will be away, along with any of the men who would have known you as Ned’s daughter. Your father was a smart man in at least one regard; he kept his family quite separate from his work.”

“Then why am I going at all?” Sitting up as well, reaching for her shirt she began to slip it back on. At the mention of Ned she suddenly felt confined with him, wanting out of the room as soon as possible. She felt as though something was wrong with her, with what she was doing, what _they_ were doing. The regret seemed to only come afterward, when Petyr went back to business as usual, when he went back to being _Littlefinger._

“Because Joffrey _will_ be there. He never goes to the conferences. He thinks they’re _boring_. It would behoove you to let him see you. Oh, and dress simply, save those less conservative dresses for later.”

Sansa nodded. She had known what she was getting into when she made the deal; a pact signed in her family’s blood. “I’ll figure it out.” She stood, slipping on pants and leaving him there.

 

She picked a light blue dress, simple and modest, for the meeting. _It would have looked nicer with my old hair_ , she thought, sadly fingering dull brown tresses. She chose flats instead of heels, heeding Petyr’s advice, and used makeup sparingly. She _was_ going to a huge company building, after all.

Packing a small lunch for Petyr and herself, sandwiches with apples and a small cake each, she tucked them into a couple of black lunch bags and met Lother in the driveway.

“He forgot his lunch. I thought I’d bring it to him.” Sansa replied when Lother asked where he was taking her.

“I see…” Lother began, seeming to stifle a sentence.

“What is it?” Lother was usually such a quiet man. It made Sansa all the more curious.

“Well…it’s just not the safest place to go. Couldn’t Mr. Baelish just order lunch?” If the tough man had been capable of showing any emotion so far, Sansa thought it would be concern.

“I know, I just thought I would surprise him. He’s been so kind to me, after all.”

Lother paused, appearing to choose his next words carefully. “Alright, but just be careful. There. With him. With them.”

Sansa wondered how much Lothor knew about Landing. Or how long he’d been working for Petyr. He certainly wouldn’t tell her; not yet, she was convinced. He _did_ know the sort of relationship that she and Petyr were having, however. At least, he’d been driving them in the car the night of their kiss.

Who exactly was he warning her about? His own employer, or Joffrey, or both? “I will, thank you Lothor,” was her sincere response as the car rounded the entrance.

 

The building was massive, a giant among the skyscrapers in the city, silver and impeccable as it shimmered. The revolving doors where constantly in motion, customers and workers piling in and out, all of them in haste. Sansa hadn’t been to this office in years, and each time she had the same feeling of awe as she walked in.

Inside, the place was even more impressive. Pristine marble floors and spotless wood ordained the main entrance. Elevators lining either side of the room and offices, tellers and a scattering of chairs finished the floor plan. Walking hesitantly ( _you can be brave_ ) she neared the information desk in the center. A young, blonde and perfect looking woman manned the desk, smiling unfalteringly as Sansa approached.

“How can I help you today?” Was her automated question.

Sansa put on her best innocent-looking smile and fidgeted her hands together holding the lunch bags. “My name is Alayne, I’m here to see my father. He works here.”

“Okay, and what’s his name?” She asked, pulling up a laminated paper with the list of names and offices.

“Petyr Baelish,” Alayne replied, looking down to the paper, noting Joffrey Baratheon at the top. _Floor 52, Office 1._

The blonde woman looked at her skeptically, reaching her phone and dialing a set of numbers. “I didn’t know _Mr Baelish_ had a daughter.”

 _Lie, Sansa._ “Well, I live with my mom in California, I’m visiting for the summer.”

“I see…” The woman replied. Speaking into the phone: “Yes, I have Mr. Baelish’s _daughter_ here…yes…okay, I’ll send her up.” The woman hung up and handed Sansa a small key-card. “This is your visitor pass, he’s on floor 50. You can take those elevators.”

 

Sansa pushed the key card in, and pressed the numbers (52) on the gold elevator. Making a successful sounding beep she was on her way up. Making no stops, she directly hit the top floor with another beep. Stepping out, she assessed her surroundings.

 Joffrey has the entire floor to himself, it seemed. Wandering around she found the office had everything; from a large oak desk to one side, a billiards room and a kitchen. Conference rooms diverted off the sides of the room, as well as other entertainment areas. Sansa didn’t have to pretend to look lost; the vastness of the floor was enough.

“What are you doing here?” A voice asked behind her.

Startled, she turned to find Joffrey there. Tall, extremely blonde and irritated. In another life she might have found him handsome. He was dressed in a black T-Shirt and jeans, not the kind of clothing Sansa had expected. He looked more like a teenager than the head of her father’s company.  “I…I think I’m lost. I was bringing lunch to my father and the lady downstairs told me this floor…” She responded apologetically.

“This is _my_ office. Who’s your dad?” Joffrey asked, surveying her up and down.

“Petyr Baelish.” Her virtuous smile locked into place.

“Really? I didn’t know he had kids,” he replied, indifferently, still staring, “especially any daughters.”

Alayne put on her best blush, looking downward, “I’m visiting. Could you please tell me where he works?”

“Sure. I’ll take you there, I don’t want a beautiful lady like you getting lost again.” He extended an arm.

She took it, fighting an urge to scowl at the boy who killed her kin. “Thank you, how kind.”

“Not a problem. This is my company, did you know?” He moved her into the elevator.

Leading her to the 50th floor and toward the office marked BAELISH, he regaled her with tales of business. Alayne knew which parts to laugh and appear impressed, despite wishing he would choke on his own saliva as he talked. At one point his face traveled inappropriately close to her ear as he spoke, but to Sansa's relief he had enough discretion to pull away as they approached her father's door. Knocking, Petyr bypassed his secretary to open the glass frame, extending his arms to Sansa.

“Alayne! What a nice surprise. They called and said you were on your way up.” Littlefinger gushed.

Sansa let herself be pulled into the embrace, giving a daughterly squeeze back, then handing him his lunch, “you forgot you lunch, dad.” She turned to Joffrey, “He’s always forgetting things.”

“Where have you been hiding your pretty little daughter, Littlefinger?” Joff interjected.

“Away from trouble like you, Mr. Baratheon,” Littlefinger joked. “Bringing me lunch, how dutiful of you, my dear. I see you brought yourself one as well. Why don’t you join me?”

“I’d love to.” Sansa moved again to the boy at her side, “I’ll let you get back to your work. Thank you so much, Mr. Baratheon.”

Joffrey shrugged, “not a problem, and please, called me Joffrey. I hope to see you again, Alayne.”

Walking past the secretary, Petyr led her inside and shut the door behind them. As soon as it closed Petyr loosely pulled at a wrist, bringing her closer. His eyes were alight. “You did well.”

Sansa let herself be coerced forward, placing a hand on his chest and a soft, chaste kiss directly to his mouth. “What's next?” 


	12. The Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've got desperate desires and unadmirable plans  
> my tongue will taste of gin and malicious intent

A text warned Sana that the plan had been set in motion. Several days had passed since the trip to Landing, and Littlefinger had been gone most of that time, working late, leaving early. Despite herself, Sansa was beginning to miss him. Maybe it was just the lack of basic human contact or maybe she missed the way his mouth felt on hers, she didn’t know if she would ever be sure.

Petyr came home early to prepare Alayne with final bits of material for her new role. He’d learned that Joffrey was planning on going out for the evening, and Margery was on holiday with her grandmother for the weekend. Having gone out with Joff in the past ( _mandated business outings_ , he had scoffed), Littlefinger knew the places he could be found.

 

Sansa chose a petite red dress, tight fitting and much too scandalous for Sansa to wear. Alayne wore it confidently. High black heels, thickly powered face and braided brown hair completed the façade. She was in front of the mirror, applying ruby red lipstick generously when Petyr appeared behind her.

“How do I look?” She asked, a small part of her hoping he wouldn’t deem her worthy to play the part. Hoping there was another way to repay the Lannisters for destroying her family.

He was still behind her, hands moving to lightly grasp waist, chest pressing against her back as he planted a quick kiss to her neck with a slight smile. “No uncle should let his niece leave the house like this.”

She laughed, humor mixed with nervousness. “No uncle should be grabbing his niece this way…”

He looked at the mirror, eyes connecting through glassy frame. “It’s a good thing Lysa’s gone then. I don’t really think I qualify as your uncle anymore.”

“Maybe you should stop mentioning it, then.” Sansa retorted with an eye roll.

“Maybe you should put something on over this _dress_ until you’re ready to leave.” Still behind her, one hand moved upward to lightly graze the side of her breast while the other worked its way down her thigh. Fingers lingered where the dress ended and skin began. Sansa’s breath hitched slightly, just enough for Petyr to notice and tilt one side of his mouth skyward.

“I’m sorry _uncle_ , am I tempting you?” Any attempt at malice in her words was quickly replaced by a more pressing feeling. Pulse escalated as she met the hand at her breast, intertwining with his fingers and directing him toward a rougher press. Unable to concentrate on any one feeling with so many working in tandem, hands and fingers and now mouth pressed hungrily to her neck, she leaned her head to the side, giving him an easily angle to work with.

“Oh yes, you’re very persuasive. Maybe tonight wasn’t such a good idea. I don’t think I can part with you at the moment.”

“Well, you’re going to have to. I have a prior engagement, if you recall.”

 

Walking out of the bathroom and to the entrance of the house, Sansa began to shake. Hands, legs, trembling in fear of ruining everything. She still had so much to learn, how was she supposed to pull this off?

Petyr saw her to the door. Leaning forward and placing a kiss to the side of her temple in reassurance. “There will be eyes on you at all times, in case something goes wrong. Look for Lother, make a mental note of where he's stationed. Remember, Joffrey is a stupid boy. Once you get away from his detail there won’t be anything to worry about. I’ll be there before you know it.”

Sansa nodded, finding comfort in the press of lips. Why did she find consolation ( _and more_ ) in such a man?

 

The bar was dark and crowded. Sansa had little experiences with bars, but in movies ( _was anything like the movies, really?)_ they usually appeared more well-lit, with neon signs and laughing crowds. There was laughter, but mostly just conversations between small groups with the low hum of rock music serenading the mob. All ages, as well, from old loners at the bar to younger packs surrounding high tables. The first pub she’d gone to was free of Joffrey Baratheon. She had a list of his three favorite clubs; the one she currently resided in was the second. 

She scanned for Lother in the crowd, and found him finally. He was toward the back of the building, by himself and nursing a large glass of amber liquid. Sansa almost made to wave but stopped herself just as hand began to rise ( _how stupid are you?_ ). A barely noticeable nod was all she received before he went back to staring into the crowd.

Attempting to mingle and appear inconspicuous, she went to the bar and ordered a drink, something pink and girly looking. Nursing it gingerly she stationed herself in a seat and waited. A few men approached her, starting up conversations and using the odd cheesy pickup line. She deterred them all politely ( _I’m waiting for a friend, you see…_ ”) until she found what she was looking for.

He was sitting at the opposite end of the bar, speaking to a couple of boys close to his age. Button down white shirt, he was much more dressed up than their previous encounter. _How long had he been here?_ Staying where she was, it took a few moments for him to skim the crowd, Sansa finally making eye contact. Excusing himself from his friends he made his way over.

“Do I know you?” He looked at her skeptically.

Alayne looked shyly down to her lap, “yes, you helped me a few days ago finding my father, Petyr Baelish.”

Memory jogged, his face lit up in recognition, “Oh yeah, Alayne, right? You look so…different.”

“My friend picked out the dress, it’s not really what I’m used to. She was supposed to meet me but I think she bailed…”

Joffrey adopted a flirtatious grin, leaning closer to her, elbow relaxing onto the bar. “Well, let me keep you company. A beautiful girl like yourself shouldn’t be by herself. Would you like another drink?”

“Yes, thank you, Joffrey.” Alayne was caught.

 

The boy could certainly hold his liquor. Several drinks later for him and four (one really, Alayne appeared to be drinking but Sansa kept spilling them out when Joff wasn’t looking) for her brought them significantly closer together. Alayne, swearing she’s _never done anything like this_ as Joffrey moved his hand up her thigh, not caring what patrons may be watching. Alayne was receptive to his touch, adjusting herself to his movements with girlish giggles.

“What do you say we get out of here?” Joffrey asked into her ear. 


	13. The Kill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> through the give and take you've had to learn  
> how to cross the coals and not get burned  
> but you're really just a little girl  
> playing in the park til the sun goes down

The hotel was ancient. On the outskirts of the city, a location that may have been popular several decades ago, the dilapidated building stood directly next to the highway exit. Semis and vacation-worn cars scattered the parking lot as Alayne directed her escort to halt the car.

“Right here, no one will know you here.”

Joffrey adopted a disdainful look toward the building. “Of course not. I’d never be caught dead here. Can’t we go somewhere else? This place is…disgusting.”

Alayne drifted closer to him, hand easily avoiding the parking brake to gently grip the inside of his thigh. Sansa’s stomach lurched in disgust and she pouted her lips at him. “And risk being seen? What would Margery think? I couldn’t bear to have you angry we me if we were caught, my love.”

Joffrey scoffed. “You’re lucky you’re beautiful, Alayne. You’re lucky I want you.”

Alayne smiled. And he was won.

 

The timeworn room was no better than the exterior. Yellowed wallpaper clung to the walls, peeling occasionally where corners came together. The smell of bleach and mustiness mixed together in their nostrils. As soon as the door was shut Joffrey wasted no time, gripping Sansa by the waist and moving her toward the bed.

“You have no idea how much I want you, Alayne,” he breathed, almost growling.

“Not nearly as much as I want you,” she returned, forcing herself to deliver a longing sigh. It wasn’t untrue. She did want him. But not for the same thing.

Her red dress was unceremoniously removed, flung toward the closed bathroom door, and she was left in a black lacy bra with matching underwear she had bought especially for the occasion. Her black heels remained, also, as she was pushed onto the bed. Quickly unbuttoning his shirt he moved to join her, climbing on top of her without another word.

It was Sansa’s move now, and she only hesitated for a second before bringing her legs up to wrap around his torso as tightly as she could. Locking her ankles together she pulled her arms around him was well. She knew she was not nearly as strong as him, but she only needed a few seconds.

“Like it rough, do you?" Was Joffrey’s reply to her fixed hold on him.

Sansa smiled, genuinely this time, a quick burst of breath to move the brown hair from her face so she could see him completely. “Yes, I do.” And then, “Petyr!”

“Petyr?” Joffrey was clearly confused. “What the fuck do you mean?” But that was as far as he got before a thick rope was secured around his neck and he was pulled backward, off of Sansa, by his most _trusted_ advisor.

Joffrey easily could have overpowered Petyr as well, if he hadn’t retained the element of surprise. But when Sansa quickly sat up she saw Petyr had him prone on the floor, foot on the middle of Joff’s back with the rope still around his neck, forcing the boy to tilt his head almost vertically up to breathe, secured by Petyr’s hands. Her uncle looked sideways to her then. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” Was her immediate answer.

Standing to join him, he tentatively handed her the rope still secured to Joffrey’s throat. “Be careful, he’s very strong.”

“I know.” Sansa gripped it tightly as Petyr struggled to grab Joff’s arms, preventing him from freeing his neck.

Sansa’s heart was racing. Hands barely able to keep a grip on the rope attached to struggling form. She knew this was wrong and that there was no going back after the deed was done. But would she want to anyway? What was there to go back to? The body beneath her (yes, just a body, not a _person_. No person would be so terrible) stole her life from her. Her existence, for the next few moments at least, revolved around vengeance.

“I was going to let you speak.” Sansa began. “I was going to let you beg for your life, and maybe even let you go if you promised to admit you did it and spend your life in jail. But then, you didn’t give my father a chance to speak, did you? Or my mother. Or Robb. So you get to stay quiet.”

Joffrey continued to struggle as she tightened the rope. Amid the choking and gasping noises she could barely, just slightly, make out her name.

“Ssss..aaaa…sa”

“Yes Joffrey. It’s Sansa. You missed a few Starks, to your sorrow.”

And she tightened the rope until his struggling ceased.

 

She stood over the body for several long minutes in silence, staring at it. She knew that killing Joffrey wouldn’t make her family return. She knew it wouldn’t make her happy (although some small guilty part of her was satisfied). What did surprise her was how little she felt. _Maybe it will come later, when my hands stop shaking and my heart stops pounding._

Petyr was staring at her. His eyes were fixed to hers just as hers were fixed to the crumpled form at her still-heeled feet. Snapping out of her thoughts she realized she was still only clad in bra and underwear. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she turned to face her uncle ( _accomplice, now, or am I the accomplice?_ It was hard to tell anymore).

“How did I do?” She asked quietly.

Petyr closed the distance, then, stepping over a stray limb to take her face into his hands. “Excellent, my Sansa.”

His Sansa. _His_ Sansa. And she was now, wasn’t she? Just as he was hers. Otherwise, why would he be here?

Her lips collided into his with no warning, begging his mouth to open to hers. He returned it, gladly, hungrily, as he pushed her up against the faded wallpaper. Not the bed then. The bed was too good for them. She didn’t feel _good_ anymore. Her hands grasped at his shirt, lifting it easily off, then clutching at his jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping as he sucked and nibbled at her neck, groaning into her.

No words now, just gasping and sighing as he slid her underwear down to the floor and unclasped her laced bra, hands roughly cupping a breast as she pulled a leg up around his torso, his cock hard against her stomach.

As her arms came up around his neck for support, his went to the back of her thighs, drawing her up around him. Positioning himself at her entrance, he gave one quick, hard thrust and entered her. She moaned loudly, not having been filled this harshly by him, her mouth seeking his if only to stop the moaning. This coupling was different; this was _fucking_ , she thought as he crashed into her with force. She matched each quick thrust with her own, moans turning desperate as she could feel herself traveling closer to the edge. And he was half-crazed in desire as well, meeting lips or neck or hair with each turbulent rise into her. A few more nearly violent connections and they were both ruined; Sansa first with a silent cry, and him shortly after, continuing to oscillate inside of her as he came down.

Bringing her leg down as she pulled himself out of her, she surveyed the room again. “What do we do now? What do we do with…?” She couldn’t bring herself to say his name. Somehow it seemed too final, as though saying his name was an admission of guilt.

“We leave it. I’ve made arrangements,” Petyr replied, almost casually, buttoning his pants and picking up her bra, tossing it lightly to her.

“Arrangements? This isn’t a dinner party, _Mr. Baelish_. We've just killed someone.” Quietly said, but still, there it was. Admission.

Petyr chuckled, “Actually _, you've_ killed someone, although I did help. Now keep your voice down, these walls aren’t that thick. We have to get going.”


	14. The Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm fooling somebody  
> a faithless path to roam  
> deceiving to breath this secretly  
> this silence, a silence i can't bear

Sansa was hunched over the sidewalk in front of Petyr’s house, gagging into neatly trimmed shrubbery. She had run out of stomach contents to eject before the drive home was complete, begging silently for Lother to pull the vehicle over every few minutes by hastily pressing palms to the back of the driver’s seat. It was late enough that people probably assumed her father had picked her up, clearly too drunk to get home on her own.

Not drunk, though. _Responsible._ Sometime during the walk from the hotel to the car she began to feel it; adrenaline from the _act_ leaving her, causing her stomach to turn.

He kept his distance, not testing the waters on the ride, occasionally offering a few fingers to help pull her hair away from the emesis until their destination was met. Striding swiftly past the form next to greenery he walked inside, ignoring her stooped, heaving form.

Moving from a bending stance to sit on even concrete, Sansa still shed no tears for the boy. He didn’t deserve them, she knew that, but did she have a right to swing the blade? Face in her hands as she drew her knees to her chest, she sat until she could see small streaks of color on the horizon, yellows and pinks indicating impending daylight.

She heard the door behind her open and shut, followed by quick footsteps toward her. A hand on her shoulder, harshly grabbing her upward, causing her to cry out in protest. “Petyr, let go!”

“Then _get inside_.” He sounded angry. _Why?_

“Fine. Just let go of me.” Feeling his grip relent she moved ahead of him and into the doorway. “What’s the matter?”

“You’re the matter, Sansa. You have what you wanted. The boy can’t harm anyone else now. Why all this…drama?” His voice low, contained, an attempt to sound less irritated.

Sansa could hardly believe him. “Because, Petyr, I just killed someone. A human person. With my bare hands. And then we _fucked_ , right next to where…he was.”

“Did you think it would be simple? It isn’t. If it were easy everyone would do it.” There was no venom, a matter-of-fact tone overtaking any lingering fury.

“I thought it would make me feel better. Better about what he did to my family.”

He smiled sadly at her. “Did you really? I think you’re smarter than that. Killing wont make you any _happier_ , but it will make you stronger.”

“What if I don’t want to be?” Sansa asked him, miserably, walking away from him and settling herself on the couch. She was split in two; one part of her had a feeling of uncontrollably spiraling down, with guilt threatening to swallow her. The other part of her felt some sort of relief, a release from wanting revenge for her family, from her innocence. She couldn’t deny she felt liberation in that hotel room; having Joffrey struggling against her, Petyr between her legs, forcefully driving into her. The dissection of her feelings was causing her to drown in gray waters between right and wrong, good and bad.

He paused, possibly deciding whether to follow or not, until he made up his mind and joined her on the sofa, taking a strand of her murky hair between his fingers. “You made your choice already, when you survived the fire, when you chose to live here, when you tightened the rope…”

“Stop. Just stop. I know. It just feels like _too much_.”

 “Did you not realize what the stakes were?” He took his hand from her hair, instead tentatively bringing his hand to hers. “It was Joffrey or you. The Lannisters had to take you out, one way or another. There wasn’t any other way. This is the path we had to take.”

“Why? What am I to them?”

 “Everything. The Lannister’s hold on Landing is tenuous at best, and only becoming weaker.” Petyr smiled, caressing her palm with his thumb. “The problem with killing all your opposition is that it creates unrest. Robb was being groomed to take over the company right under Joffrey’s nose, and would have succeeded. Ned was helping him, and they had built a significant amount of support. That’s why they needed to go. No one would have accepted Joffrey with Robb around. While publicly it may seem as if they are unstoppable, I assure you they aren’t. A Lannister won’t sit comfortably on the throne while there are still Starks breathing.”

“So they think I’m a threat?” Sansa almost laughed. This girl, the one dressed in something akin to lingerie with the smell of vomit on her breath and sex between her legs, she should be feared by no one at all.

“You _are_ a threat. More than you know. Jon may have Stark blood, but you’re the real danger. Bran and Rickon are too young yet and Arya’s gone. It’s you, Sansa.”

“But, _I’m_ too young, I don’t know anything about what my father did.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll have years to learn. What matters is that we make sure there is a place for you when you’re ready to take it.” He rose. “We’ll talk about it more in the morning. Get some rest.”

She stayed on the couch, not wanting to make a move for her bedroom. She thought Petyr might insist she migrate to a bed, but he kept silent and made his way to his own room. Grabbing the throw from the back of the sofa she covered herself with the soft blanket, making herself a tight cocoon despite the summer warmth of the house. Dozing in-between reflection, not falling into any real REM cycle, she arose still exhausted and unready for another day of plotting.

Relief was immediate then when Petyr left early for a weekend meeting, promising a day devoid of anything but relaxation when he returned.

 

Joffrey Baratheon’s strangled body was found in a hotel room that morning. Sansa flipped the television on, apple in hand, watching the story break. Hotel staff had found him there, right where she had left him. The newscaster reported that they knew who the murderer was.

Sansa held her breath, heart threatening to break through her ribcage. They were doomed. _The police are probably waiting outside now…_

No. It was another picture they showed. Familiar straight chestnut hair, less makeup than their first meeting, and no longer clothed in a sparkly dress, but she would recognize this woman anywhere.  Petyr’s _client_. The reporter informed her that the woman was an escort at a popular club and had spent the night with Joffrey. When he became too rough, she was forced to try and get away. Realizing that she’d killed him, she ran, but guilt got the better of her. She went to the police herself. She _confessed._

 _Will guilt get the better of me?_ No, not yet at least. The pieces had fallen together for Sansa without any effort on her part; there was still a great deal that Petyr wasn’t sharing with her. He said he’d taken care of the body, was _this_ his idea of keeping his hands clean? How much did he pay this woman to lie? Or worse than money, she ruminated, as her mind drifted to blackmail and threats. How much was this man capable of?


	15. The Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and glow, glow, melt and flow,  
> eviscerate your fragile frame and spill it out in the ragged floor  
> a thousand different versions of yourself

A week passed, and Sansa felt much of the same division she had felt the night of the murder. Petyr was gone almost all the time now, picking up the pieces at Landing after Joffrey’s _unexpected_ death, staying overnight at the office more than not. This left Sansa alone in her thoughts, not daring yet to speak to anyone else.

Keeping busy was the key to moving forward, she had found. She had made up her mind to finish school as quickly as possible, signing up for a GED program online. She could start college in the fall then, really begin to set foundations for her knowledge base. _And Petyr will be here to help._ Looking through GED questions she wondered if Petyr was split in the same way she was. He certainly had two sides to him. One was ruthless and terrible, she'd discovered. _Will I become that way as well? Have I already?_

 

“It’s your birthday, did you forget?” Petyr said, moving into her room. It was late; he’d been at work all day, clearly just returning home. Suit and tie still intact, he had a genuine smile on his face and a white wrapped box in his hand with a large indigo ribbon.

“I guess I must have.” Usually her birthday began with her mother constructing a breakfast fit for royalty, making sure the whole family stayed to eat. Once everyone was home for the night, birthday cake and presents followed. No one was allowed to miss birthdays at the Stark house. Her family broke the rules this year. Most of them were too busy being cold in their graves. Not even Jon had called to remind her.

He took a seat on the bed, handing her the gift. “There are two things in there. One is pretty, and one will keep you safe.”

Sansa studied the box he put into her hands, starting to pull apart the edges of the ribbon. He was staring at her, waiting for a reaction. Delicately unwrapping and opening the box, she found two smaller packages inside.

“Open the smaller one first,” he suggested.

Prying clasped box open she found a silver necklace with a circular diamond hanging from the chain. Pulling it out, she inspected the jewel closer. “I can’t possibly keep this Petyr. It’s too beautiful.”  
“It’s yours. Now open the other.”

The second gift was in a slightly larger container. _Meant to keep me safe?_ This container held a simple, strong knife, small enough when folded to fit inside a purse or pocket.

“I didn’t know if you had one, I thought not. This is in case I’m not around and you need to act quickly. It will be more dangerous now, after what’s happened. You may have to defend yourself.”

This present she accepted without qualm.

Setting the boxes aside, she pulled Petyr toward her, softly pressing his lips to hers. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Anything for you, Sansa.”At that, Petyr’s mouth opened, tongue gliding out to mingle with hers. Despite the fact that the person before her was more mystery than man, she still reveled in his touch. Her hands lifting up to stroke his graying temples, she moved downward onto the sheets, bringing him on top of her.

His fingers crept downward to her waist then, moving down just under her cotton shorts. “Sansa…” he whispered into her ear, taking the sensitive end of her earlobe into his mouth and gently pulling. “I’ve missed you this week.”

Her response was a soft groan extracted from her as his touch moved closer to her growing wetness, caressing just above her pulsing nub. Involuntarily pushing hips to meet his hand, he drew away, moving instead to slowly lift her shirt off. Once removed, he followed with loosening his tie and hastily tossing it to her side. Unbuttoning the start of his shirt, Sansa grew impatient and pulled him forward before he could finish the job.

Mouths violently pressed together, Sansa reached down to his pants, unzipping them hurriedly and bringing out his hardness, lightly grasping him in a hand. Too light, it seemed by his groaning response as he began to slide her pants down, underwear following, spreading her legs and readying himself at her entrance.

Sansa pulled up slightly, breathing heavily, pressing hands to chest in mild protest. “Not this way.” She had other plans in mind. Arms securing his torso she turned him around until he was lying on his back, Sansa moving to straddle him instead.

He looked at her amusingly, eyes dark with want. “This way, then?”

She nodded, bending forward and pressing soft, white breasts to his still-clothed chest, lips moving to place dry kisses to his throat. She was trying to take her time, make him wait a little longer, but her pelvis betrayed her, rocking back and forth against his stiff cock, not yet entering, forcing hitched breaths from him. His hands traveled to her waist, demanding more _friction_ with his harsh hold.           

She was, embarrassingly ( _achingly?_ ) wet for him as she moved into position, the tip of his firmness at her entrance. Pressing downward with only a slight hesitation, she moaned, not realizing how much she had missed it as well. Where the first few times were plagued with a different kind of ache, Sansa felt nothing but a pleasurable burn now, slowly dictating the pace as he stared up to her, occasionally moving hand to tease a breast or drive a free strand of hair away.

Feeling the now familiar building, she began to quicken their tempo, Petyr’s increased work of breathing gave no argument. Sighing, and sitting upward on him, she began propelling faster with shortened, less uniform movements, chasing and chasing that blinding feeling. With a startled cry she came, bending backward on him until his moved himself up toward her, not yet finished, now controlling the pace. Driving up into her for a few final strokes, he followed suit, face buried in her neck and hair as he groaned, staying still with an exception of small circular pelvic movements for several moments.

Carefully removing himself from her he pressed her back onto the bed, intertwining his legs with hers, digits buried in brunette hair. Drawing up a sheet over the both of them, sleep came quickly.

 

She woke up to the sound of light breathing next to her. Petyr was still next to her, half on her, with an arm spread across her ivory skin, his shirt still mostly on, legs mingled together. Their faces inches apart as she made to press a chaste kiss to his lips. She could feel him smiling as he hummed in approval, arm insistently pressing her closer.

“Good morning.” She said into his mouth.

He smiled deviously as he drew away for a moment. “Not quite yet, but it will be…” He was making to remove his shirt ( _all the way this time_ ) the desire on his face foreshadowing acts to follow when Sansa’s phone rang out, a familiar set of notes indicating a call rather than a text. Who would be calling? Maybe Jon, wishing her a belated birthday? Reaching over her guardian ( _lover?_ ) to see who the caller was, her heart dropped. The caller ID claimed it was from Landing. Showing the screen to Petyr, he looked calculatingly at the device. “Answer it,” he said finally.

Not releasing eye contact, she hesitatingly pressing the ANSWER part of the touch-screen. “He…hello?”

“Sansa Stark? This is Cersei Baratheon. Did I catch you at a bad time?”


	16. The Offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and watching lovers part, i feel you smiling  
> what glass splinters lie so deep in your mind?

There was a longstanding Italian restaurant a few blocks away from Landing. When Sansa was young and Ned was working long days at the office sometimes Cat would bring them for lunch to share a quick meal with their father. Often, it would be the only time the children would see him for days. On some occasions Ned would bring Robert, his best friend and partner. Less often, Robert would bring Cersei. Sansa didn’t like those days. Cold, distant and quiet with the exception of sarcastic remarks, she was a dreadfully beautiful woman. To Sansa, she was mostly just _dreadful_.

According to Petyr, Cersei was a big player in the game. Being very close to the top of the corporate ladder with Tywin Lannister as her father, she was raised to be bloodthirsty. She was known for being unforgiving, not caring about anything except the company and her family. 

What the woman may not know is that Sansa could play now, too.

Being noon on a Monday in the business district, the place was packed. Sansa had made the appropriate reservations as soon as the meeting was set. Gliding past the mob of people waiting for tables, she was secured at a comfortable table to the side of the restaurant by a young hostess. Dressed smartly in a cream blouse and dark skirt with hair tied delicately back, she looked older than her years.

Expecting Cersei to be fashionably late, Sansa positioned herself to face the door, keeping an eye out for any of Petyr’s men. He said they would be there, perhaps not directly in her line of vision though. Not Lothor of course, Cersei knew him and would know him to be Littlefinger’s man. Baelish was still needed _inside_ the company. For Petyr to lose the trust of the partners would be devastating to them both. Still, it frustrated her to see no familiar faces in the crowd to give her an ounce of comfort or courage, so instead she focused on the door, waiting for the woman to come through.

“Look at that hair. I almost didn’t recognize you. Where is the red, dove?” Cersei remarked from behind Sansa.

“I needed a change. I don’t think brown is quite my color though.” Her hands were _not allowed_ to shake. Cersei could not see any weaknesses.

Cersei moved to her front, taking a seat opposite her. She had a black, simply cut dress, modest, with plain heels of the same shade. Still, she could command the attention of the room if she’d wanted. Long blonde locks and sharp, calculating eyes, Sansa feared immediately that she was going to lose this round.

_No. I must be strong._

“You’ve had many changes lately, I hear. So sorry about your father and mother.” Cersei taunted, dripping with false-sympathy.

Sansa pushed down the anger, instead putting on her winning mask, “you as well, Mrs. Baratheon, I heard about Joffrey. He was barely older than me, is that right? It’s been so long since I’ve seen him.”

_Not so long, really. I watched the life drain from his eyes._

For a second, Sansa could see Cersei fracture. The mention of a dead son, especially so recently, would be any mother’s weakness. Carefully concealed emotion began to seep in for just the blink of an eye, but not even a second later she was composed again. “Thank you, sweet child. He was too young, my beautiful boy. There was a confession, you know, but I suspect there is quite more to the story. There always is, isn’t there?”

“Always.” Sansa coolly responded, nails digging into palms underneath the table. _She knows_.

Without another word on the subject however, the older woman continued on. “With that said, I imagine you’re wondering why I asked to speak with you.” Cersei was interrupted then by a waiter, setting two glasses of water with frosted edges onto the clothed table and asking what they would like to drink. Cersei ordered herself and Sansa each a glass of wine before Sansa had a chance to respond. As soon as the boy left she continued without pause. “So, I have asked you here to offer you a job.”

Sansa’s eyes widened, taken aback. “A job? Why?” The look on her face must have shown her incredulity because Cersei began to softly chuckle.

“Yes, a job. Nothing too stressful. With everything that happened to your family I feel it’s the least I can do. The company was founded with both your father and my husband. I’m sure you agree that there should always be a Baratheon and a Stark at the company. Now that Joff is…gone, I’ll be taking over his position until my other son Tommen is old enough. I’ll need more help, however. Who better to ask then our late Ned’s daughter?” The wine delivered, Cersei took a deep drink, Sansa followed suit, letting the oaken, dry flavor spill onto her tongue. “What do you say, dove?”

Sansa paused, trying to determine what her intentions were. “I’m not sure, Mrs. Baratheon. Can I get contact you later with my response?” _Good, diplomatic._ Sansa didn’t want to make any deals without first understanding the fine print.

“Oh course. I’ll give you my personal line, and I would prefer to have an answer by the end of the week.” Producing a pen and paper from her purse she jotted down a series of number, standing as she handed Sansa the folded slip and tossing a few bills on the table. “Oh, and that color is ghastly; go back to red.” With that, she excused herself.

Sansa sat at the table for several moments before leaving as well, wine unfinished.

 

“ _Don’t come directly home, run some errands first. Make sure you’re not being followed. She can’t know you’re staying with me._ ” Petyr had warned her at least four times before letting her go, and so Sansa spent the afternoon walking around the bustling city. At first, she noticed a dark colored SUV in the far off distance of anywhere she would roam, even after she would stay in a store or café for a long while. After making her way to a walking-only park she managed to lose the vehicle. Relief began to set in, quickly followed by dismay. _Is this how it’s always going to be? Always watching, running?_

It was evening before she decided to make her way home. 


	17. The Direction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get a little closer, let fold  
> cut open my sternum, and pull  
> my little ribs around you  
> the lungs of me be crowns over you

“She wants me to work for her. I told her I wasn’t sure.” Sansa told him as soon as she’d walked in the door, ripping off the now well-worn heels and slinging her purse to the wall. _I guess I’ve made myself at home, after all._

He was on his laptop in the kitchen, not bothering to look up to respond. Dressed in boxers and his usual loose fitting cotton shirt, it must be later than she thought by the judge of his dress. _Or he’s more comfortable around me as well._

“I know. I assume it went well then?”

“You know? How?”

Petyr looked up, eyes bright, “because I gave her the idea.”

“Excuse me?” Hands turning into fists at her sides, she was sick of always being the last to know the major details in her own life.

“Well, I steered her in the direction, at least. Keeping enemies close, you know.”

“I don’t know. That’s the problem, I’m never told.”

Regardless of her current anger, she couldn’t help but be internally amused by Petyr Baelish. The man did love to be crafty, and loved to explain _just how cunning_ he was. “Think about it. Cersei needs you right now, if only as a figurehead. You probably won’t have to do anything at all, but having a Stark around will keep the peace until they can figure out their next ploy. I didn’t tell you right away because your surprise at the offer needed to be genuine. Cersei is shrewd; she might have known if you were faking. We can’t have her opening those doors yet.”

His reasoning made sense, but irritation remained. “Why should I help them?”

“Because you’ll be helping yourself as well. Learn from them. Observe everything, get a feel for the business. The more comfortable they get with you the more they’ll let you in.” 

“So I’m meant to take the job? What about school?”

“You’re going for a GED, right? You’ll have to stay local for college, but I don’t see a problem. You don’t need to be there every day, just enough to remind them that a Stark still works at Landing. To remind them of Ned, of Robb.”

The naming of her father was as close as she’d come to a blow to the stomach. They had worked for Landing too. They had walked the halls that Petyr was offering to guide her down. They had burned for it. “What if I don’t want to? Look what happened to my family when they tried to take the Lannisters down.”

Petyr sighed, moving his vision from blue eyes to clenched fists. “Then don’t.” Not unkind, words spoken softly. “Stay here and play the _obedient daughter_. Or go somewhere else, but I assure you there are risks in running from them just as there are in staying here.”

There really wasn’t another option for Sansa anymore. Running would do no good, Arya was the sibling that had talent in disappearing. Staying as the brown-haired daughter of Baelish meant living in constant fear of being found, only multiplied now that Cersei had seen her wearing the dull shade. Sansa wondered if Petyr had did that purposefully, not having her change her hair for the meeting.

There was never a choice, really. Petyr might be attempting to comfort her with false options, but he wasn’t the one who needed to pay. Ultimately it was the Lannister blade that dismembered her family.

“I’ll do it.” Sansa said, resolve found.

Petyr smiled, finally closing the laptop and moving until her was at her side. “We have a lot of ground to cover then, in the next few days.”

“Wait, Petyr. I’ll do it, but I have conditions.”

His genuine smile fell to something closer to a calculating tilt of mouth. “Go ahead.”

“I know that there’s more to this than you’re telling me. I’ve known for a while. And I’m sure that helping me is beneficial to you in some huge way, otherwise why would you bother? Well, I want to know when you make plans that involve me. I don’t want to be kept in the dark.”

“Clever girl,” _Admiration in his eyes?_ Sansa wasn’t quite sure. “Alright, what else?”

“I want you to teach me. Help me learn about the company, about how it runs. What the vulnerabilities of its employees are.”

“That’s what school is for, Sansa.” He didn’t appear irked by the request, however.

“You know that I mean. You’ve been at this for a long time. I want to know how. My mother said you started out as nothing, so how did you end up here?

“How? By working for it, and making a few friends along the way.”

“And enemies?”

“And enemies. You’ll have some of those too if you continue. From the tone of Cersei’s voice after your meeting you have some already.”

 _That’s not surprising._ “She told me to dye my hair back, and there should always be a Stark at the company.”

Petyr looked away again, sly smile playing at his mouth. “Good. Dye it back, then.” Looking back to her, his hand moved to grasp chin between two digits. “Any other…requests? If not, I think we have a deal. I’ll help you learn, _when I can_ , and I’ll keep you included now, although you may not thank me for it in the end.”

She knew that the deal would afford him many loopholes to omit or misconstrue information given to her, and that he would only teach her what he wanted her to know. With that in mind, she was still satisfied. This was progress, however small. Someone considered her significant enough to barter with. If she could make a deal with this sort of man, she could certainly come to an agreement with others. A nod was what she gave him then, small and affirming.

The victory was short lived; Petyr started, moving right back into planning mode. “Don’t call her back for a couple of days; we need to get some things in order before you start.” Grabbing his laptop and taking a seat on the couch he began to explain. Sansa followed suit, taking a seat next to him. “We’ll need to get you an apartment in the city, close to Landing.”

Obviously she couldn’t come back to Petyr’s house every night. Sansa hadn’t thought about how easy it would be for them to follow her back one evening, and to watch plans crashing down.

“I’ve already set up a few appointments to look at places tomorrow for you. Pick one you like, but don’t use Lothor, take a taxi to the city.”

“How soon do I move in?” Just when Sansa had become marginally at ease in the Baelish home she was going to be forced out again.

“As soon as you can. Tomorrow, if you find a nice place.” Petyr may have noticed the dismay in her voice. Setting the laptop aside once more, he pulled her toward him, settling her temple to his chest.

In the morning it will all change again. She was steering a ship far off course, wind tearing and driving her further away with every attempt at a redirect. Sansa stilled, sinking inside of herself. Pretending that the world wasn't as cruel as she knew it to be, pretending that she was just a normal teenager snuggled against someone who cared about her.   


	18. The Apartment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘cause you are the ocean  
> and i’m good at drowning  
> (you should be looking out)

Sleep had come easier that night, oddly, with all the thoughts swimming through her mind. Maybe her anxiety was quieted by the promise of being more than an observer in her own existence. She wrenched herself away from welcomed mattress and peered toward the driveway through her window. Petyr’s car missing already. Processing all she needed to do today, she headed to the bathroom to transform her locks to a shade more satisfactory.

She looked at three units before coming to a decision. Skimming through the list she’d been given of addresses, she chose randomly, not sure what she wanted. The first was an old, dusty set of rooms set right against her father’s building. It was too close to the place, in Sansa’s opinion. Nothing would ruin her days more than waking up to stare directly at that skyscraping tower. The second she deemed too elegant; everything was immaculate, the walls and floors were white and stainless, rooms enormous. She was only one girl to have in such a large space, and she’d be too afraid of marring the perfect dwelling. _I have blood on my hands now, after all. The stains may be catching._

Much to her delight, the third was perfect. Moderately close to the office and larger still than she might have preferred, the one-bedroom apartment seemed homey and snug. Decorated in soft blues and grays, fully furnished and simple; just what Sansa wanted. Even so, the kind-eyed older woman of a landlady was ultimately Sansa’s real deciding factor. A gentle gaze would be hard to find with the company the Stark girl kept now.

_I can be comfortable here, maybe, if nowhere else._

While Petyr was footing the bill for now (the landlady told her so when she asked about rent), Sansa had every intention of paying him back once she started her job. Cersei hadn’t spoken of pay, but Sansa suspected she would be willing to negotiate.

After spending the day moving her belongings in and out via taxi (not that there was that much to move) Sansa took her time unpacking, attempting to make the place _hers_. She worked well into the evening, allowing herself to be excited at the prospect of managing her own activities. When she was sure most of her belongings were where she wanted them, she settled on the couch, flipping on the television, and relaxed.

It wasn’t until several moments passed that she realized how alone she was. It wasn’t necessarily bad, but it was _different_. Before, there was always a parent or a stray sibling to talk to or argue with. There was never a moment of solitude to steal in the Stark house. The sounds of running boys, a mother who hummed quietly to herself as she cleaned and a father’s deep laugh would have forever lingered in those walls, or what now remained of them. Afterward, she had Arya at least in the hotel room to help comfort her. Not that she was much of a consolation, but her presence was enough to quiet a distressed Sansa. Then there was only Petyr. As much as she hated to admit it, he was becoming a fixture in her life.  Uncle, guardian, lover, mentor-he was many things to her. And what she to him? She couldn’t be sure yet.

 

A couple of hours later with a soft rapping on the door Petyr made an appearance. Bottle of wine in hand, dressed still in his work attire, Sansa accepted him in, taking the bottle and searching the kitchen for a couple of glasses.

“Not bad. I like it.” Petyr said, staring at her head of newly re-dyed hair and glancing around the unit. “What made you pick this one?”

“I don’t know, really. Just felt like home, I guess.” Glasses found, she poured the dark liquid and offered him one.

“If you need anything. If there’s…trouble. Make your way to apartment 506, just down the hall. Mr. Kettleblack lives there. He’s a friend, he’ll help you.”

Sansa nodded in reply, knowing that must have been the reason he suggested this apartment in the first place. Baelish seemed to have a lot of _friends._

Taking a small sip and setting the glass down, Sansa didn’t know him to be a big drinker, the man walked around the apartment. Satisfied after seeing all he could and finding her back in the kitchen, he donned a teasing smile. “Do I get a key?”

She had expected this inevitability when the landlady offered her a pair of keys when only one was needed. The lease was in his name, after all. _Who else would I give one to?_ She considered telling him no, making him knock like anyone else would. But she was thankful for him, for everything he’d done. And no, to her, he wasn’t like everyone else.

From her pocket she presented him with the silver key. “Don’t abuse it, Petyr.”

Petyr simulated a look of hurt. “Me? _Never_.” Taking the piece of metal between thumb and forefinger he placed it in a pocket. Without missing a beat he began moving his hands to her waist, pressing her against the counter.

Molding into his touch, one hand intertwining with his on her hip and the other settling on a shoulder. “Will you visit?”

“Often, if you’ll let me.” Petyr’s voice had grown low, resting his head in the curve of her neck in auburn tresses. “God, I missed this hair.”

“Me too,” Sansa pressed toward him, closer, a sigh escaping her as he began to softly suck on her neck, not quite hard enough to leave marks on ivory skin. Sansa wanted this now, wanted him. Already feeling a wetness between her legs, she began to unbutton his shirt as quickly as she was able, nearly tearing buttons off.

Petyr drew back, giving her room to work, moving his mouth toward hers, panting softly. “I think I know what this apartment needs.”

Buttons undone, Sansa tore the shirt off, next making quick work of her own as well as her bra, flung unceremoniously onto the kitchen floor. Pressed against him now, skin-to-skin, working at his belt with still unpracticed fingers. A rumbling noise in his chest, paired with the bulge she could feel as the belt was freed and zipper opened, told Sansa that her heat was shared. Reaching down, fingers loosely gripped the hardness found, eyes locked on his, daring. “And what’s that?”

“It needs to be broken in.” Lips met hers insistently as Petyr began to undulate into her grasp, seeking out more contact. Sliding her bottoms along with underwear down halfway he lifted her up, seating her on the marble top.

“I think it might take a while.” Sansa gasped as she was moved, kicking the remainder of her pants off and dragging him closer. Wrapping her legs around him, she found the angle was a bit too high for comfort. Undeterred, Petyr adopted a wicked grin, easing down until his mouth reached the inside of a thigh. Gently catching a piece of tender flesh between his teeth, he pulled and sucked closer, closer to where she wanted him.

Pulling back for a moment, the man looked up to her, one hand sneaking down to caress her folds, teasing. “We have a while. We have all night, to start with.”

Bucking her hips toward his digits, she had no luck in coaxing a better rhythm from him until her hand shot down to urge him on. “All night?” She whined, as two of his fingers moved instead into her wetness, driving deep into her center and curling.

“I think I could stand to go into work a little late tomorrow.” His lips found her throbbing clit, and with renewed force he drew heavy breaths from her. Fingers still inside her, moving in time with his mouth, he groaned into her as he moved with greater purpose.

Her hands swept to his hair, digging into his scalp as she began to build. How did she become this way? Writhing and moaning against her mother’s childhood friend? Pushing the thoughts aside she focused on the feeling-of him beneath her, the noises driven from him indicating he was enjoying this as well. Her gasps grew desperate as she circled her hips in time with his actions until the pleasure forming became almost painful and she cried out a final time, hands keeping him in pace as the pulsing slowed.

Petyr rose after a moment of softly kissing her, thighs, stomach, breasts until he finally met her mouth. She could taste herself on him as she wound her tongue with his. Her eyes drifted to his not yet sated desire. Bringing him closer she whispered in his ear. “How late can you be tomorrow?”


	19. The job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fever bliss into central nervousness  
> bitten on the entrance  
> i was bitten on the entrance

Unsurprisingly, Petyr had left before Sansa woke up in the late morning. She groggily looked to the empty space in the bed where he’d been only hours ago. Not satisfied by their encounter in the kitchen, Petyr had insisted on a relocation to the living room. After that, sated but not entirely quenched, they stumbled on into the bedroom until fatigue won out just before dawn. The girl would be lying if she said she didn't enjoy it, enjoy _him_ , as wrong as it was. Something about the look in his eye, the soft look he gave right before he pulled her close told her she might be something more to him as well. 

Lazily walking into the kitchen she noticed a note on the counter with a new brown leather briefcase, set exactly where she had been sitting ( _gasping_ ) only hours before. Picking up the message and reading the brief directive ( _call Cersei, -P_ ) she took a deep breath, readying herself for the task.

Cersei claimed she wanted her to begin immediately, much to Sansa’s alarm. Expecting not to start until as least Monday, she found herself instead striding into the familiar building on a Wednesday afternoon. Unsure of where to go, she found herself again at the helpdesk staring at the young blonde woman. This time Sansa was dressed not as a dutiful daughter with modest outfit and darkened hair, but as the (possibly more confident) auburn haired daughter of Ned Stark, with sky blue dress with a higher cut and the leather briefcase given to her by a _coworker_.

“You must be Miss Stark.” The smiling robot said before she’d made it all the way to the desk. “You’re expected on the 51st floor right away. Here is your personal identification badge. You can use it to access the elevators.” Handing the card to Sansa, the woman went right back to her computer screen, typing away.

Elevator doors opening before her as she stepped onto pristine white tiling and examined the floor. Much like the others, it was extremely clean; not a chair, file or person seemed out of place. Offices lined the front of the area with larger rooms in the background, appearing to be used for conference rooms. As she was looking around a boy briskly walked up to her, he smiled and extended a hand.

“Hello, Miss Stark. My name’s Harry, and I’ll be your personal assistant here.” He was a tall, blonde haired boy not much older than her with blindingly white teeth. She was reminded for an instant of Joffrey, and her chest tightened as she took the offered hand in a shake.

“Hello. I don’t really think it’s necessary for me to have a…”

“Nonsense, Sansa. Who else will help you to manage? Harry’s been here for quite some time, he’ll help you get familiarized.” Cersei was beside them now, flanked on either side by frightened looking attendants. “Come now, no time to waste. There’s a conference going on, and I wanted to introduce you to the team.”

 

Entering the conference room was a shock. There were at least twenty men and women at the rectangular table, and all of them looked far more intimidating than the child before them. She recognized a few of them. Royce was seated near the far end, smiling encouragingly. Tywin Lannister was at the front, a commanding glare in her direction. A few others she wouldn’t know by name but she had met during a dinner or party of her father’s. There were three empty seats. One directly next to Cersei, where Sansa was being led to sit. One next to Tywin, Sansa assumed that would have been Joffrey’s seat, and one directly after that.

Cersei cleared her throat. Unnecessary, really. Everyone in the room was already quietly staring at her, at Sansa. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you are aware that this is Sansa Stark, Ned’s oldest. She has graciously accepted an offer here at Landing. Hopefully she’ll decide to stay. I think we can all agree that a Stark is always welcome here.” This statement was met with murmurs of approval. “She will be working closely with myself and Petyr Baelish…where is that man?” Cersei remarked, annoyed, looking to the emtpy chair.

“Conference call, Mrs. Baratheon. He said he’d read the minutes later,” a voice in the crowd replied.

“Oh…yes that’s right. I forgot he was getting an update from Benjen on the new rollout….”

The mention of her Stark-blooded uncle startled her. She hadn’t really thought about him, about what he was doing in the company. “Benjen?”

“Yes, your uncle is doing some work for us overseas. He’ll be visiting soon, isn’t that exciting?” Cersei responded, tone suggesting it wasn’t exciting at all. “Come, sit. We’ll begin now.”

Taking a seat, Sansa listened raptly to the matters being discussed. She didn’t understand a great deal of it, but pulling out a notebook and jotting down anything she wasn’t sure of, she made up her mind to look the information up after. The meeting was heated at times, clearly there were divisions on opinions about a possible upcoming merger, and they kept mentioning the overseas rollout; to Sansa, it didn't seem like anything was really resolved. Tywin Lannister, she noticed, mostly just sat and listened, but any time he spoke the room instantly defaulted to him. _This is the man to be afraid of_. After the meeting adjourned, a handful of people came up to introduce themselves to her, kind words of sympathy plentiful. Royce stopped over to squeeze her shoulder encouragingly, and she overheard one of the nastier looking gentlemen remark “ _she’s taking notes, how adorable_ …”

“Just ignore him. He was one of Joffrey’s men.” Royce glared at the man as he walked toward the door. “Just keeps your wits about you, child. This can be a tough business.”

Cersei was beside her then, motioning for her to stand up. “Let’s get you to your office.”

Following the woman into the elevator and down a floor she was led to the area she’d be working. Opening the large wooden door she stepped into a small office with a dark chair and desk with various office supplies neatly organized on top.

It was more than Sansa had expected, and striding to take a seat behind the table her gratitude was genuine, “Thanks you, Mrs. Baratheon.”

She chuckled, still in earshot of the offices outside. “My dear, this is Harry’s office, yours is behind that door. I’ll let you find that one on your own.” Stepping close to her, Cersei’s gaze shifted from humor to an icy demeanor. “I do want you to know, since we’re here alone for a minute, that I know you had something to do with it. _I know_. And I’ll be watching you carefully.”  

Sansa stared at the woman, unable to find a response. Luckily, the door opened, and both of them looked to the sound of hinges, masking the noise of the deep swallow Sansa took.

“Ah, Petyr!” Cersei sounded relieved to see him. Sansa stood still as Cersei approached the man, kissing him on the cheek in familiarity. Sansa’s body seemed to betray her at that moment as she felt a twinge of something in the pit of her stomach. _Jealousy?_ No, certainly not.

“Cersei,” Petyr replied amiably, “I understand you were looking for me?”

“Yes, I forgot you were in that conference call. I wanted to introduce you to the Stark girl. I’m sure you’ve met our little bird when Lysa was alive.” Even though she was speaking to him as if Sansa wasn’t even in the room with them she could still hear disdain in her voice when speaking about her.

“Yes, but I haven’t seen her from some time.” His lie was compelling, eyes were hard and calculating, matching Cersei's at his side as they both looked at Sansa. “ _Miss. Stark_ , how are you?”


	20. The Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's an outlaw  
> on the highway  
> and she's falling  
> and she's falling

“I’m well, and you Mr. Baelish?” Sansa said respectfully.

“You’ll get no complaints from me,” the man responded, eyes travelling back to Cersei with a smile playing on his lips.

Cersei returned the gesture toward him. _How did he garner such favor with the arctic woman?_ It didn’t last long; in the next breath she glanced at her watch, sighing heavily. “Well, this has just taken up too much of my time. I’m sorry Petyr, but would you mind giving her something to do? I have more important matters to attend to.”

“Of course, Cersei. We’ll speak later then? About Benjen’s report? There is some new information I think you’ll be interested in.”

“Yes, stop by after you take care of this” She was already halfway out of the room as she spoke, clearly in a hurry to remove herself from the girl’s presence.

Sansa stood still for a moment, processing everything that had transpired so far today, before deciding to seek seclusion in her yet-unseen office. Ignoring Petyr and opening the door past the desk left Sansa stunned. The room was easily three times the size of Harry’s unit, and much more elegant. A long window in the background of a polished wooden desk with a new computer, plush dark chairs set in front of it. A small refrigerator and bar were placed in the corner as well as a separate sitting area with a sofa. _This is nicer than my apartment_.

“She told me I’m supposed to monitor you, make sure you don’t get into trouble or go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” He spoke from behind her, letting himself in and closing the door once he was inside.

“I don’t know where my nose belongs in the first place.”

Arms circled her waist from behind as he spoke into her ear. “For now, just do your job for a while, until you get acquainted with the place.”

“What is my job, exactly?” Covering his hands with hers, not encouraging but not dismissing either. His behavior with Cersei was an act, surely, but it still left a sour taste in her mouth.

“Right now? Cersei would have you filing, stapling papers, painting your nails. Anything to keep you busy but harmless.” Arms held her tighter, pressing her back into his chest. “But I want you _studying_. Meet the board members, learn their names. Talk to the people on this floor and learn what each of them do.”

“That’s all?” Sansa was expecting a larger task. Twisting out of his hold she spun to meet his eyes, questioning.

Mocking eyes matched a leering smile now as he backed up, departing from her. “Small steps. I think it’ll be more difficult than you think to get to know your coworkers. You need a foundation to work with.”

She mirrored his mouth and eyes then, “I think I can handle it. And you’ll be checking up on me?”

“Regularly, yes. So don’t cause any disruptions. Not yet, anyway.”

Sansa almost let him go, just as he was about to grab the handle she spoke again. “Cersei told me she knows.”

He didn’t turn, but quietly spoke. “She doesn’t know anything. She _suspects_ , Sansa. It’s different.”

“But…what do we do?” He seemed too cavalier, as if Cersei finding out was of the same level of urgency as what to eat for lunch.

“We watch. We wait. Don’t be concerned; I expect it won’t be long.”

“For what?”

“For her to break.”

 

The next week became almost a blur. Petyr was not keeping true to his word. Often giving her cryptic communications with missing parts of information or simply leaving out important facts all together, Sansa was forced to work to find her own answers. Working late into the evenings she struggled just trying to remember the names and jobs of the people on her floor.

Even worse, Littlefinger, which is how she referred to her devious coworker, was becoming one of her least favorite colleagues. Underhanded and clearly a Lannister favorite, her coworkers seemed to find him incredibly useful but barely tolerable. The fact that he commanded the affection of Cersei Lannister only seemed to add fuel to the fire. When he approached her to give her a new assignment his eyes were uncaring, staring into blue eyes as if she were beneath him.

The nights told a different story. Visiting her more often than not, he was Petyr then, kind and warm. Underneath him, staring into mossy eyes that illustrated a building devotion rather than disdain, she was content.

One evening she decided to try her luck with Petyr. They were stretched out of the couch, she was half lying on his chest and he absentmindedly ran his fingers through her unkempt hair. Her light green dress was still half-on, bunched up at the bottom and unzipped in the back. They’d been in too much of a hurry to fully disrobe or even relocate to a more sensible surface.

“How did you get so…close to Cersei?” She asked softly, staring at the top of the couch.

She felt a low rumbling in his chest that indicated he found the question amusing. “Are you _jealous_ , Sansa?”

Sansa exhaled more loudly than she’d intended. “No, there just aren’t many people who are close to her.”

Petyr went quiet for a moment, until Sansa thought he might not answer at all. “It took me a long time. In the end, I was able to find out the things she wanted and get them for her. Information, people, contracts. It started to add up.”

“And why are you so sure she’ll break?”

“Sharp girl, waiting to get your answers outside of the office.” It was said with affection as he took her chin and brought her mouth to meet his for a quick graze of lips. “She’s already there, really. She’s convinced you killed her son.”

Sansa’s stomach tightened. “Well, it’s true, I did. We did.”

“No one else would believe her. A young, innocent girl brutally murdering a CEO?”

 

 

Sansa had him talking, _actually explaining_. Thinking quickly she pulled away from him, sitting herself up as she removed the rest of her dress. Petyr gazed up to her, eyes darkening for a second time that evening. He slowly began to unbutton his shirt as he continued talking.

“They already have a confession from someone else. All of the eyewitnesses claim Joff was seen with a brunette woman with a very revealing dress. People would never believe this virtuous auburn Stark would have done the deed.”

“Virtuous?” Sansa put on a coy smile. “You know better.”

Petyr laughed _, a true laugh_ , and shrugged off his shirt as he drew her on top of him. “I do know better.”

Planting kisses onto his chest, breasts pressed against him, and fingers unzipping and pulling him out of his boxers, she goaded him on. “So why is Cersei sure it’s me?”

Petyr groaned softly at the kisses, hands pulling her back upward as he tilted his pelvis up, slowly grinding against her wetness. “Because she saw your hair before you dyed it back. Brown hair. Because one of her informants may have hinted at it to her.”

Placated for now, and sure that the man under her was running out of patience, she covered her mouth with his as she sunk down onto him with a gasp. 


	21. The Cut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you don't move slow  
> taking steps in my directions  
> the sound resounds, echo  
> does it lesson your affection?

She had taken to walking back to her apartment on nice evenings, especially since she rarely had the chance to go outside anymore during the week. Most of the route was safe with well-lit streets and ample audience to thwart any attempts at _troublemaking_ , but there was a small stretch of her trip that bordered on dangerous; a narrow alley, a shortcut to a destination Sansa meant to reach quickly that evening.She walked with a brisk pace, eyes dropping to her phone now and then, waiting for a call from Harry about some information she’d asked him to get.

It may have taken longer than she’d thought, but she knew most of her coworkers and what they did at Landing. One man in particular, however, seemed to not have a specific duty at all; a tall broody man by the name of Bolton. Harry’s task was to dig up some information on him. Working through her personal assistant may not be terribly wise, but she saw no other choice. Cersei now was almost constantly checking up on her, making sure she wasn’t doing anything but mindless errands. The look of suspicion in her eyes grew more menacing every day.

Sansa tried to communicate this to Petyr, but Littlefinger at work was no friend of hers, and her evenings had been spent alone this week. The man still in his office even as Sansa went home for the night.

It wasn’t completely dark yet, streaks of reds and oranges in the horizon still colored the buildings and sidewalks, and so she found no reason to avoid the alleyway. That is, until she felt the company of another behind her.

 

The man came to a halt as she spun around, “who are you?” Her attempt to sound commanding came out much weaker than she had intended.

“No one.” Was his response, a low and gruff sound, as he marched toward her, not easily deterred. He was big; all muscle and height. Face covered with a dark, greasy beard and a black coat on despite the temperate weather.

“Don’t. Don’t come closer. My father will be here any minute to pick me up.” The lie didn’t even sound convincing to Sansa; the man just cruelly laughed at her.

“Your daddy’s dead, little girl. Everyone knows that. Don’t worry, you’ll see him soon.” Closer still, only a few feet separated them as she backed away from his form and his hands began to lift to her, fingers parted and ready to throttle.

He acted much swifter than the girl had anticipated. Phone forgotten and dropping to unforgiving concrete with a smash, Sansa’s hands flew to her neck as she was pressed against the wall with his large fingers restricting her airway. She couldn’t scream; she couldn’t _breathe_ as she struggled to no avail.

_Think, you stupid girl. How do I get out of this?_

Calming herself enough to think clearly, she remembered. Letting one hand go for just a second she was able to find the front pocket of her briefcase and reach into the small opening, pulling out a small, metal object. Pressing a button on the side she opened the knife in one quick motion, thrusting it without another thought into the large man’s side.

The man groaned in protest as he held his grip, only slightly looser. It isn’t _enough_. Retracting the blade she pushed it inward again with a stridulous grunt, this time closer to his umbilicus. A meatier wound, she realized, as the man jerked away and clasped his stomach, bending at the waist.

Sansa slid down the wall until she found her bearings and skirted to the side to avoid the hobbling form. She could see blood beginning to seep through his guarding fingers. While he was distracted she fled. Ripping her heels off she started to run in the direction of the apartment, only blocks away.

Reaching her destination with bruised and abraded feet she steadied herself. Fumbling with her keys, she managed to push into the apartment building. Her phone was gone, cracked on the side of the street next to a bleeding adversary. She needed to call Petyr; maybe a neighbor would let her in to borrow a phone. Sansa had kept to herself, regretting now never bothering to introduce herself to the people that lived on either side of her unit.

_Room 506, Mr. Kettleblack._

Mr. Baelish told her he had a friend there. Surely he would be able to get in contact with the man. Taking the stairs instead of the elevator in an effort to rid herself of nervous energy and adrenaline she scanned the hallway for anything amiss. Alone, she made it down the empty hallway, passing her own door and rapping knuckles directly below the set of numbers 509 further down the path.

“Just a minute.” She could hear a gruff voice from the other side of thin wood. The sound of clattering, most likely dishes, rang in Sansa’s ears before the door creaked open gradually, about a foot’s breadth, enough for a glimpse of the skeptical eyes of a middle aged man. “Who is it?”

Sansa wasn’t anxious to meet him, but her nervous system was still buzzing from the alley and she could barely stutter the words out. “I..um…I’m a friend of Petyr Baelish…”

“…and?” The man seemed unimpressed by the revelation.

“He told me to see you. If…if I needed help.”

“And do you? Need help?”

“I was attacked by a man…just now.”

His eyes softened, possibly realizing her was staring at a scared young girl. He extended the opened door, gesturing with his arm for her to come in. The apartment mirrored hers, sans color. Where cleanliness and blue hues made up her space, his was cluttered and mismatched with browns. Wearing a black shirt and jeans, with his build she thought he looked like some sort of security guard.

“Would you like some tea? I just put the kettle on.”

“Okay.” _Maybe something warm to drink will help._ “I just need to borrow your phone though. Mine broke…during the-“

The man put his hand up, signaling her to stop. “I don’t want to know. It’s none of my business. I’ll call him and let him know you’re here. Have a seat.”

Sansa sat down on a worn recliner, watching the man move around the room. Pulling out a small phone he dialed a set of clearly memorized numbers. “Hey, it’s me. I have one of your girls here,” the man said into the cell phone. The way he spoke was casual, as though this wasn’t the first time they’d had this type of conversation. “No, not _her_ again. This one’s young…” Kettleblack looked to her. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. It’s Sansa.” _One of his girls?_

“It’s Sansa, she says.” He was silent, listening to instruction for a minute. “I thought you didn’t like to stop by here.” He looked to Sansa again, appraising as he listened. “This one’s different, isn’t she? Hmmm. I see. Alright, then.” Ending the phone call with a touch, he set it aside and headed toward the boiling water in the kitchen.

Sansa stood up and followed him into the next room. “What did he say?”

The man turned off the stained stove and poured the steaming water into a pair of mugs. “He’s on his way.” 


	22. The Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones  
> 'cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs.

Sansa retreated back to the chair, mug warming her digits. Kettleblack settled into the sofa adjacent, studying the girl without a word.

“How do you know him?” Sansa questioned, breaking the silence.

He reclined back, setting his feet on a metal coffee table. “I worked for him, years ago. At one of his clubs.”

“His clubs?”

He puffed a breath of air out, amused. “Yeah. His clubs… _his gentlemen establishments_.”

 _Oh._ “So, strip clubs.” _That explains the women, the other business ventures he’s involved in_. “Why don’t you work there anymore?”

“Hurt my back on the job. He keeps me on the payroll for stuff like this, though. Looking out for you ladies.”

 _He thinks I’m a stripper?_ “So he still owns them?”

He gave her an analyzing look. “How do you know him, anyway? Obviously not from the clubs, then.”

 _What a complicated question, with an even more problematic answer_. She and Petyr existed through a series of knots, it seemed. No way of untying them now, not without consequences. “He…he’s my uncle.”

“Sure he is.” Kettleblack was unconvinced, but let it drop anyway.

 

Silence reigned for a time, Sansa sipping on her tea while Kettleblack began to doze, until the sound of a key in lock and a hurried opening let her uncle into the abode. The sofa was abandoned as the sleeping man jumped up, giving Baelish a nod. Clad in his ever-present business attire, he wore a look on his face treacherously close to _concern_. “Sansa. What happened?”

Regardless of how frustrated she was with him, relief was evident on her face at his arrival. “A man attacked me on my walk home.” Words that had been thoughtfully rehearsed turned quickly into jumbled strings of sentences as she recalled the events. “I didn’t mean to do it. I-I had no choice. His hands were on my neck and I couldn’t _breath_ so I _had to_ …I had to, Petyr.”

Ignoring a startled Kettleblack he reached to her, closing her into a tight embrace, fingers threading through her hair. “It’s alright, you’re safe. Now tell me: what did you do?”

“I stabbed him. With the knife. Twice. He was bleeding and backed away so I was able to run. _I had to_.” _What if it was a mortal wound? Another body to add to the count?_ One was enough. One was too much, already.

“You did what you needed to do Sansa. You did nothing wrong. Let’s get you home.” Loosening his grip, he nodded to the other man. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, sir.” Kettleblack resumed his seat, eyeing the pair carefully as they exited.

Guiding her to her bedroom then, he unzipped the back of her dress for her and steered her to bed. Removing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt halfway, he sank down next to her, resting his head in her floral scented hair.

Sleep had overtaken her for a few hours with Petyr keeping watch. Waking up in the middle of the night alone then caused a small quake of worry deep in her chest. Had he left her? Noises were coming from somewhere, and after hearing his voice in the next room she quietly moved to investigate.

‘Oh course, Tywin. I understand, but something has to be done. The girl almost died tonight. Luckily, she went to one of my men first.”

Sansa inched closer, remaining quiet. He was on his phone, spine to her, speaking softly as he leaned forward on the kitchen counter.

“Yeah, I’m here now, watching out. She’s too valuable for us to lose her to Cersei’s insane accusations.”

 _So this was Cersei’s doing_. Sansa’s concern over the woman was validated; she almost died for it.

“Have her spend some time in a mental health unit? Yeah, they can be discreet, but it’ll cost you. No one will know she’s there. What do you want me to do next, then? With the Stark girl, yeah…I think she’ll be fine if Cersei is…detained.” With a pause followed by a brief goodbye the call ended. Petyr bent forward, still just in her line of vision, resting a palm on the table while his other pressed to his forehead.

Sansa crept back into her bed, simulating sleep. After a few minutes he returned to the room, soundlessly migrating back to her side.

She didn’t sleep until he left her in the morning. It was Saturday, otherwise she probably would have taken the day off. With a near-death experience and questionable overheard conversations by her would-be savior she was ready for a break. Wrapping the blankets around her she resolved to stay in bed until the end of time. Or at least until Monday, when plans were already taking shape in her mind. The locked box in Petyr’s dresser, for one, would need to be examined. She had too many questions now. How far does this charade go? What game is Petyr Baelish really playing, and at whose expense?

Lost in her thoughts she didn’t notice him standing in the doorway with a plate of food in his hand, raising his eyebrow in question. “Breakfast?”

Sansa sat up. No staying in bed, then. “Sure.”

Bringing her the plate and taking a piece of bacon for himself, he landed next to her. “You okay?”

Taking the plate and dipping a piece of toast into yolk of an egg she nodded. “I’ll be fine. Just a little shaken still.”

Petyr bit into the bacon, staring at the wall. “It was Cersei’s man. He’s alive, by the way. He’ll make a full recovery, but you did some damage so it’ll take a while.”

Relief washed over Sansa. _At least he’s not dead_. ”Good.”

“Tywin sent Cersei to a psych unit today. Involuntarily. You’re safe from her, for now at least.”

 “What does that mean for the company?”

“I’ll be taking over Cersei’s workload, until they can find a suitable replacement.” It was impossible for Petyr to hide the fleeting look, pride and desire for power, in his eyes.

_And you’re Tywin’s man, Petyr? Was that the deal? Or are you still mine?_


	23. The Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made myself at home  
> in the cobwebs and the lies  
> i’m learning all your tricks  
> i can hurt you from inside

Monday on her lunch break she made her move. Directly before she left she watched her uncle stride past his secretary and into his office, not appearing to be leaving any time soon.

_Good._

Harry then arranged for a taxi to pick her up from the end of the street. Hustling into the car she made sure no one was around to see her drive off. Determining if she was being followed was complicated; she took the roundabout way to the residence just to be sure. Pulling up to the house she still had her key, entering without difficulty.

She had no real way to get into the locked square without destroying it, and so she decided to use a hammer from Petyr’s toolkit. No decorum was present as she set the box on the floor and took to pounding, smashing it in half after several forceful swings. There were more folders inside, similar to the ones neatly stacked in the dresser, and a stack of photographs. A few stray files went flying into the air as she had obliterated the box. Gathering them back to her and prying the thick manila pieces apart she peered into the top bundle.

No guilt was felt for looking through his things after she had read the contents of the first folder. They were all about her, after all: birth records, school records, trust fund information; all her. Family photographs, pictures of she and Arya at one of Arya’s fencing tournaments, a mother’s day card she had made for Cat.

 _Why does he have these?_ _These should have burned with everything else._ Filing through the papers in bewilderment, not wanting to leave them in his room. She wanted to take the fragments of her old life with her, sinking down to the floor and holding them to her chest. It seemed to Sansa that any step forward she took pushed her back three paces.

The sound of the front door opening didn’t panic her. _I guess it’s time for a confrontation._

She didn’t look up until he was directly in front of her. His jaw was clenched, arms crossed in a stance she’d never seen him adopt. “Sansa.”

“How did you know I would be here?”

“Harry told me you left.” Barely a whisper.

 _Of course he’s yours, too._ “What are these doing in your house?”

Petyr stared at her, eyes narrowing as he saw the pieces of the box. “What were you doing, going through my things?”

Sansa found she didn’t really care if he was angry or hurt by her investigation. Her ability to feel any emotions at all seemed to be failing her more and more. “What are they doing here?”

“Cat gave them to me.” Words still hardly audible. “What else did you go through, Sansa?”

 _What else is there?_ “Nothing, just this.”

That seemed to relax him. “Good.”

“Why did my mother give you these?” Sansa demanded, holding the papers up in a sort of statement, or maybe just because she still couldn’t believe they were real. “They told me everything was lost in the fire.”

Petyr, suddenly appearing fatigued, dropped down next to her, grabbing an old photo from a stack, handing it to Sansa. “Because she knew. She knew that one day Ned’s work was going to get them killed.”

“How?”

“Because Ned found out how the company was getting rid of their competitors. Mostly by killing them. They had a plan to kill one of the daughters of a company who wasn’t playing nice, a girl around your age, and Ned wanted to put a stop to it, at any cost. Cat knew they would pay for it. Cat was always the smarter one. She gave this stuff to me just in case.”

“You were friends with her before, right? She mentioned it once.” The picture he handed her was of Petyr and Cat as children, the pair smiling at the camera.

Petyr chuckled softly, sadly. “Yeah. We were friends.”

_Now or never._

“It’s probably better that she’s gone,” Sansa began, stirring the waters, “I wonder what she would say if she saw you now.”

“What did you say?” His voice was low, contained, face inching closer to hers.

“Fucking her daughter. Selling her out, the child she trusted you with, to Twyin Lannister.”

Still close to her, irritation was building in his eyes. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I do. I heard you on the phone the other night. Asking him what he wanted you to do next.” Her eyes were sharp, daring him to make a move.

“So you think you have it figured out, right?” He was leaning forward, faces inches apart now, anger being replaced by a hunger. He wanted her, despite how angry he was. He was a terrible man, uncaring and cruel. And she still wanted him as well. _What an awful thing._

 His eyes focused on her hair as he swept his fingers through it. “You need to pay better attention.”

“I think I’m doing alright.” Her hand darted out to snatch his wrist, stopping his maneuverings but not pushing him away. Gazes met, and the pair stilled.

 

Mouths bruised together as their bodies collided. Tongues and teeth worked in equal measure as Petyr pulled the girl to her knees and forcefully slid her dress up and over her. She was the more careless of the two, not bothering to unbutton his shirt, instead just ripping the clothes away.

She pushed him down, supine on the floor, moving to his belt and making fast work of his pants and underwear, sliding them down to his thighs. Her own underwear came next, discarded to the side. Straddling him as he unclasped her bra, she began to move against him, surprised at her own wetness. No coy smiles, no teasing, just skin and sweat as he lifted his pelvis for more contact, groaning.

Using one hand to press his chest down, keeping him lying, her other moved to guide his cock to her entrance, sinking onto him without hesitation. They moaned in unison, followed by a deeper noise from him as she lifted and descended again with a force she had never used. Moving in him, listening to the noises she pulled from him, was more than satisfying to her as she kept the rhythm slow and torturous.

Possibly sensing her enjoyment, he grabbed her by the hips and remorselessly flipped her over, keeping himself buried in her on the turn, immediately thrusting again into her.

“Why don’t you go warn him then? Tell him about my _treachery_?” he groaned into her ear.

“I will, Petyr.” Resolve somewhat lessened by the gasping way she responded in-between shoves upward to meet him. Her body began to tense, a building feeling she shouldn’t be having. “So kill me now-if you’re going to.”

“ _Never._ ” He responded, and with a final cry her whole body went taut in pleasure, Petyr following just behind her.

For a moment, they remained still. He was still on top of her, heavy breathing the only noise in the room. That moment fled, however, and reality slithered back in. Petyr turned away from her, reaching for his clothes as he began to speak. “Now that it’s out of our system, why don’t we have a chat, Sansa? Then you’re free to go tell Tywin whatever you want.”


	24. The Shot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll grow bitters on the borders of your whistling skin  
> i'll sew pockets of the locks that fall from your bristling chin  
> keep all my secrets in the trinkets  
> dangling from the walls

The Lannister was worse than Petyr some nights, never leaving the office. Despite the unsavory tactics he employed in managing the business, no one could say the man wasn’t dedicated. Sansa knew if she kept busy and lingered long enough she would be the last to leave besides Tywin. True to his word, Petyr had fled earlier, leaving her to speak to Mr. Lannister alone.

After the last employee exited Sansa took the elevator to Joffrey’s old floor. It had been redecorated since the younger man called it his, replaced with a more tasteful appearance; colorless and bare. His office was still in the same place, she noticed, as she stole into the larger room. The man was focused on his work; it took a few minutes for Twyin to look up at her from his computer. “Yes?”

“I have some information I think you need to hear.” Voice steady, an attempt at confidence.

“Go ahead, girl.”

“Petyr Baelish, well, he’s not as honest as you think.” _Be strong. He’ll listen._

Tywin laughed at her. “The man is many things, Sansa, but honest has never been one of them. He’s _useful_ , not trustworthy.”

“He’s not on your side. He’s only out for himself.” The man had to be convinced. This was Sansa’s only chance now, to get want she wanted.

“ _Everyone_ is out for their own best interests, Sansa. Baelish knows not to double cross me.” His confidence almost had her convinced as Tywin went back to his work, ignoring her again.

 _Why isn’t he paying attention?_ Sansa was growing frustrated, face flushing. “But he _did_. He’s been manipulating all of you, can’t you see it? You, Cersei, Joffrey. ”

Gaze lifted back up, narrowed eyes watching. “How so?”

 She couldn’t help the words from slipping out. “The woman who confessed to killing Joffrey is one of his strippers. He paid her to lie. And me…I was living with him, not in hiding. He was the one who convinced me to do it….”

_Oh no._

She hadn’t meant to say that. Tywin stood up immediately, circling the desk, toward her.

“ _Do what?_ ” Closing the distance between her, fury in his eyes.

“Kill…kill him.” She said quietly. He just stared at her, mouth slightly open, rendered speechless for a moment. She stepped back, requiring more space but not receiving any as he met each of her own steps with an advance.

“So it was you, you stupid girl.” Tywin had her cornered as she receded into the wall of his office. No one there to help her now, everyone save them had left hours ago. This scenario was her own device, and she was losing control.

“Yes.” There was no backing down now. It was done, it was said.

His face was close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath. She shuddered as he continued. “My idiot daughter was right all along. She’ll be pleased to hear it. You know what this means, right? You aren’t leaving this room, you ridiculous little cunt.” Reaching into his pocket and extracting the metal piece she hadn’t been anticipating. No one would be close enough to hear a gunshot, not in this building. Not on this floor.

“I was trying to warn you! He was playing us both, Tywin. He can’t be trusted.” Sansa was finished, with an exasperated sigh. She was defeated.

The gun was moved to point at her head now. Sansa held her breath, unable to move, unable to think as he continued. “ _You_ can’t be trusted, you little bitch. You or your _noble father_. It was a pleasure to see him burn. It was on my orders, you know? To get rid of your entire pathetic family. I’m sure Littlefinger was just as delighted to see them gone, after the scar he received from a Stark.”

“Maybe not delighted, but not exactly disappointed, I admit.” As if on cue, the man in question appeared in the doorway. “Oh, Sansa, my dear girl. This doesn’t look good for you. Not at all.” Clucking his tongue as Petyr moved to take a place beside the Lannister.

His gun was still pointed on Sansa, but it seemed he wasn’t ready to shoot yet. _He wants to get a few more barbs in before he finishes the job now that he has an audience._ The fear was dissipating, replaced with a calm feeling of resolve. A soft exhale as she resumed breathing, staring at the two men with a cold gaze. This wasn’t her day to die.

Twyin smiled, finding her change of expression amusing as he addressed the other man. “Baelish, good of you to join us. Sansa was just confessing to murdering my grandson.”

“Was she? What a naughty girl you’ve been. I guess you’ll have to be punished.” A pitiless grin on his face, where once _worry_ or _concern_ sometimes lived.

 _All lies_.

“Why?” Sansa asked, although she knew the answer already.

“For power, why else?” He answered simply.

“And you’ll have it, once she’s gone.” Tywin confirmed.

Petyr looked to the man, hands reaching into his pockets casually. “Oh, and Mr. Lannister? I just wanted make sure we’re clear on one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“I wasn’t playing you both. Just one of you.” He said, cruel grin turning into a true smile. “Just you, Tywin.”

The last look that Sansa saw on Twyin’s face was of shock. After that, after Petyr swiftly pulled out his own gun and pointed to the Lannister’s temple, all Sansa saw was blood. 


	25. The Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cool blue reason, i'm just talking to myself  
> cool blue reason, i'm just rearranging hell

Sansa watched the man fall as if in slow motion, easing downward gracefully despite the wound on his head. He blinked after he fell, opening and shutting lids and just _staring_ at the two of them between flutters. Sansa thought a shot to the head brought instant death, but watching the life slowly leave the staring man took minutes that felt like years. Silence reigned as the pair watched, Petyr's breathing was ragged, slowly becoming more controlled. And then Tywin stopped; he was done, and Sansa knew she would remember it always.

Depositing the gun back into his pocket, Petyr turned to Sansa, putting a hand on her shoulder and assessing her. “Are you okay?”

His hand, she noticed, shook slightly as it grasped her. It felt as though he needed to affirm her existence. _Need._ Moments like these were ones she would collect in the back of her mind; times when she saw a bit more of him than he wanted to show.

“Yeah. That was a little close, don’t you think?” She smiled at him, openly, relieved that this part was over. Her heart was still racing, legs unsteady. There was still a dead man at their feet. The conversation wasn’t supposed to escalate that way, not according to their plan. Sansa could only blame herself for that. If Petyr had been 30 seconds later…

“Telling him about Joffrey wasn't the plan." His hand left her as he walked over to the desk, skimming through the papers and grabbing a few sheets. Folding them carefully and inserting them back in his pocket, he kneeled next to the dead man. "I wonder if we weren’t the only ones going after him.  It’s not usually his style, having a gun.”

“ _You_ had a gun.”

“I’m a bad man, Sansa.”

“But he was _worse._ ” Justification then, for killing him? It was still going to leave a permanently bitter taste in her mouth. Would it get easier, now that she resigned to this life? Would she get used to the flavor or would she have to find something stronger to wash it down? _Time will tell._

 

 

The post-coital conversation she had with her guardian the evening before was a short one. Sated, but still angry and reaching for her temporarily forgotten underwear, she heard the man out. His target had always been Tywin, apparently. Joffrey was just the scapegoat for the older man’s plotting. He found his pants and put them casually on, acting as if they were talking about the weather rather than usurping a business.

“The target for what? What’s your endgame?”

Petyr laughed quietly. _Why did this man have to find everything dreadfully amusing?_   “You thought you had it all figured out, and you still don’t know? It’s about _you,_ Sansa.” His hand reached out to grab hers. “This is my gift to you, your father’s company.”

 _Why?_ “I don’t know anything. I’m a child.”

“You’ll learn. I’ll help.”

“They wont like me. What if they don’t accept me?” Even with her doubts she couldn’t deny the desire in the back of her mind. To take everything back, make it _better_.

“You’re a Stark. They’ll _respect_ you.”

“So let’s say I agree and we get rid of the Lannisters. What’s in it you for? What do you have to gain from this?”

He paused, appearing to chose his words carefully. “It depends on what you give me. This can be…mutually beneficial.”

 _There it is. Bargaining_. “What do you want, Petyr?”

Petyr moved closer, hands now grasping hips on either side firmly. “I want the job I have now, Cersei’s old one, only permanently. I want to be appointed as your personal advisor as well. “

 _What’s the catch?_ “That’s it? That’s pretty much what you already have.”

“Oh, and one more thing…”

“Yes?” _Here’s the clincher._  

“I want to fuck you in the CEO chair.” His lips moved to her throat, placing dry kisses to her pulse. “Anytime I want.” She hadn’t finished dressing, still only clad in bra and underwear, feeling the warmth of his bare chest close to hers.

It was Sansa’s turn to laugh at the man at her neck. “No, really. What do you want? This doesn’t make sense.”

Moving up toward her jaw, his mouth didn’t quite leave her. “I want you, Sansa. Maybe not at first, but I won’t give you up now.”

 _I never asked you to_. “I don’t trust you.” Relaxing into his kisses, his lips nearly at her own mouth, as her mind and body conflicted.

“You don’t have to trust me yet. It’s probably better if you don’t, anyway. Never rely on anyone. That is the first lesson, it can be the first of many.” Lips met, finally, for a brief connection before he moved away, waiting for an answer.

Sansa didn’t have many options in the world. Petyr was clever, knew about business, seemingly on her side, and…

 _I would miss him, if he were gone._ The horrible truth of it. United with him, she stood a chance. “Okay. What do I do, Petyr?”

Another chaste kiss, another agreement signed. “We make you into the boss. That means getting rid of the current one.”

 

 

Petyr squeezed her arm again, bringing her out of her thoughts. They were still in ( _the late_ ) Tywin Lannister’s office, his body still looked warm, face not quite yet the telling shade of gray. There was blood, a small pool around the base of his skull, but not nearly as much as Sansa expected. “Come on, we have to pick up Benjen at the airport.”

“He’s here? Now?”

“Yeah, or soon at least.” Glancing at his watch, he started to move them out of the office. “He’ll be a good asset for you, now that he’s back.”

 _He’s family._ Maybe Jon could be convinced to take a position as well. Brick by brick she meant to make herself a home among the waste.

 _Where does Petyr fit in?_ The man who killed for her. She still didn’t know where he stood, truly, but she was learning how to read him.

 “What about…” Sansa trailed off, looking to the body.

“Don’t worry about it.” Petyr said plainly. “The lion can wait.”


	26. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am one  
> damned  
> one

The first thing she did was call a meeting. 

She wasn’t late. In fact, she was right on time, but she was the last to enter the room. She’d never called a meeting before, and the looks on the board members faces told her some of them knew her plan already. Some of them were shaking in their boots.

_Let them stir. Let them shiver. In the end, let them burn._

No innocent sun dresses, not anymore. She was no Cersei, but she had the look of someone who had been to war now. Camouflage in the form of a tight simple navy dress with matching heels. Concealer colored war paint with a touch of blush. Machine gun words ready to form from her ruby red mouth.

Benjen was there, sitting in a chair to her left.

And Petyr there as well, smiling, looking proud. He was there last night, telling her to be strong and stern in between breathy sighs as he drove inside of her. Behind her, he was the only other one standing in the room. He’d kill them all for her, right now if she would ask. Without blinking. He knew their secrets. He had them carefully boxed up in his mind, ready to be unfiled and used at his ( _at her)_  convenience.

And was he rotten as well? Of course, just like she was now. And she loved and despised him for it in equal measure. One day, one emotion would win out over the other. Sansa feared that day, feared the impasse. They both knew that she would be the decider-to fuck him or fire him, it was her choice in the end. That day might be soon. 

They all stared. Not a word was spoken. Their old king was dead; they all knew it, and they knew she was the slayer. Uncertainty in their eyes, they were all broken in that room. Some more than others. Time to put them back together, or finish breaking them.

_Time to shine._

“Ladies, gentlemen.” Sansa might have been stony, but she was still respectful. The attention she was commanding was impressive, given her age and inexperience. But she was a Stark, and that was enough. “I have some important news. Some of you may have heard. Tywin Lannister is dead. He was murdered yesterday.” Murmurs of disbelief, some fake and some not, buzzed around the conference room like bees.

She glanced to Petyr, lightening-quick, for encouragement. It was found there in abundance. She knew she shouldn’t look for it in his grayish-green stare, but she was bound to him in a way she couldn’t easily detach. She didn’t want to. In those fleeting moments, she saw it in his eyes. He was hers.

“As you know, Mrs. Baratheon is…indisposed at this time, leaving few people in line for the position of CEO.” More noises then from the crowd, louder this time.

“There are rumors going around already that your new boss is going to be me. I’m here to put those rumors to rest.”

A winning smile.

_Don’t worry, I’ll make you love me. Or I’ll make you sorry._

 “They’re true.”


End file.
